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9, «. .Till -.» r- .',..,. ,....rciwv*»fl'»fi.i^j-«i». 




I am not — I am not dreaming ! 






NEW YORK 1917 

Copyright, 1888 and 1905, by 
Charles Scribner's Sons 

Published September, 1905 


I do not know whether' many people realize how much 
more than is ever written there really is in a story — how 
many parts of it are never told — how much more really 
happened than there is in the hook one holds in one's hand 
and pores over. Stories are something like letters. When 
a letter is written^ how often one remembers things omitted 
and says, "Ah, why did I not tell them that?" In writing 
a hook one relates all that one remeinhers at the time, and if 
one told all that really happened perhaps the book would 
never end. Between the lines of every story there is an- 
other story, and that is one that is never heard and can only 
be guessed at by the people who are good at guessing. The 
person who writes the story 7nay never know all of it, but 
sometimes he does and wishes he had the chance to begin 

When I wrote the story of " Sara Crewe " I guessed that 
a great deal more had happened at Miss Minchins than I 
had had time to find out just then. I knew, of course, that 
there must have been chapters full of things going on all 


the time; and when I began to make a play out of the hook 
and called it "A Little Princess/' I discovered three acts 
full of things. What interested me most was that I found 
that there had been girls at the school whose names I had 
not even known before. There was a little girl whose name 
was Lottie, who was an amusing little person; there was a 
hungry scullery-maid who was Sara's adoring friend; Er- 
mengarde was much more entertaining than she had 
seemed at first; things happened in the garret which had 
never been hinted at in the book; and a certain gentleman 
whose name was Melchisedec was an intimate friend of 
Sara's who should never have been left out of the story if 
he had only walked into it in time. He and Becky and 
Lottie lived at Wliss Minchin's, and I cannot understand 
why they did not mention themselves to me at first. They 
were as real as Sara, and it was careless of them not to come 
out of the story shadowland and say, ''Here I am— tell 
about me." But they did not— which was their fault and 
not mine. People who live in the story one is writing ought 
to come forward at the beginning and tap the writing per- 
son on the shoulder and say, " Hallo, what about me? " If 
they don't, no one can be blamed but themselves and their 
slouching, idle ways. 

After the play of "A Little Princess " was produced in 
New York, and so many children went to see it and liked 
Becky and Lottie and Melchisedec, my publishers asked 


me if I could not write Saras story over again and put 
into it all the things and people who had been left out he- 
fore, and so I have done it; and when I began I found there 
were actually pages and pages of things which had hap- 
pened that had never been put even into the play, so in this 
new " Little Princess " I have put all I have been able to 








IV LOTl'IE 34 














XIX "ANNE" 258 


lam not — I am wof dreaming ! " .... Frontispiece 

They decided to walk and look in at the shop windows . 12 

She was not abashed at all by the many pairs of eyes 

watching her 16 

More than once she had been known to have a tea- 
party 38 

When she sat in the midst of a circle and began to invent 

wonderful things 46 

The children crowded clamoring around her .... 76 

She seldom cried. She did not cry now 94 

The sparrows twittered and hopped about quite with- 
out fear 112 

The beggar girl was still huddled up in the corner . . 168 

Miss Minchin stinick the door open with a blow of her 

hand 204 

She sat down and held him on her knee 230 

Noticed that his companion . . . sat gazing into the fire 260 





ONCE on a dark winter's day, when the yellow fog 
I hung so thick and heavy in the streets of London 
that the lamps were lighted and the shop windows 
blazed with gas as they do at night, an odd-looking little 
girl sat in a cab with her father and was driven rather 
slowly through the big thoroughfares. 

She sat with her feet tucked under her, and leaned 
against her father, who held her in his arm, as she stared 
out of the window at the passing people with a queer old- 
fashioned thoughtfulness in her big eyes. 

She was such a little girl that one did not expect to see 
such a look on her small face. It would have been an old 
look for a child of twelve, and Sara Crewe was only seven. 
The fact was, however, that she was always dreaming and 
thinking odd things and could not herself remember any 
time when she had not been thinking things about grown- 
up people and the world they belonged to. She felt as if 
she had lived a long, long time. 

At this moment she was remembering the voyage she 


had just made from Bombay with her father, Captain 
Crewe. She was thinking of the big ship, of the Lascars 
passing silently to and fro on it, of the children playing 
about on the hot deck, and of some young officers' wives 
who used to try to make her talk to them and laugh at the 
things she said. 

Principally, she was thinking of what a queer thing it 
was that at one time one was in India in the blazing sun, 
and then in the middle of the ocean, and then driving in a 
strange vehicle through strange streets where the day was 
as dark as the night. She found this so puzzling that she 
moved closer to her father. 

*' Papa," she said in a low, mysterious little voice which 
was almost a whisper, " papa." 

"What is it, darling?" Captain Crewe answered, hold- 
ing her closer and looking down into her face. " What is 
Sara thinking of? " 

"Is this the place?" Sara whispered, cuddling still 
closer to him. "Is it, papa?" 

"Yes, little Sara, it is. We have reached it at last." 
And though she was only seven years old, she knew that 
he felt sad when he said it. 

It seemed to her many years since he had begun to pre- 
pare her mind for " the place," as she always called it. Her 
mother had died when she was born, so she had never known 
or missed her. Her young, handsome, rich, petting father 
seemed to be the only relation she had in the world. They 
had always played together and been fond of each other. 
She only knew he was rich because she had heard people 


say so when they thought she was not hstening, and she had 
also heard them say that when she grew up she would be 
rich, too. She did not know all that being rich meant. She 
had always lived in a beautiful bungalow, and had been 
used to seeing many servants who made salaams to her and 
called her " Missee Sahib," and gave her her own way in 
everything. She had had toys and pets and an ayah who 
worshipped her, and she had gradually learned that people 
who were rich had these things. That, however, was all she 
knew about it. 

During her short life only one thing had troubled her, 
and that thing was " the place " she was to be taken to some 
day. The climate of India was very bad for children, and 
as soon as possible they were sent away from it — generally 
to England and to school. She had seen other children go 
away, and had heard their fathers and mothers talk about 
the letters they received from them. She had known that 
she would be obliged to go also, and though sometimes her 
father's stories of the voyage and the new country had at- 
tracted her, she had been troubled by the thought that he 
could not stay with her. 

"Couldn't you go to that place with me, papa?" she 
had asked when she was five years old. " Could n't you go 
to school, too? I would help you with your lessons." 

" But you will not have to stay for a very long time, little 
Sara," he had always said. " You will go to a nice house 
where there will be a lot of little girls, and you will play 
together, and I will send you plenty of books, and you 
will grow so fast that it will seem scarcely a year before 


you are big enough and clever enough to come back and 
take care of papa." 

She had liked to think of that. To keep the house 
for her father; to ride with him, and sit at the head 
of his table when he had dinner-parties; to talk to him 
and read his books— that would be what she would like 
most in the world, and if one must go away to " the place " 
in England to attain it, she must make up her mind to go. 
She did not care very much for other little girls, but if she 
had plenty of books she could console herself. She liked 
books more than anything else, and was, in fact, always in- 
venting stories of beautiful things and telling them to her- 
self. Sometimes she had told them to her father, and he 
had liked them as much as she did. 

" Well, papa," she said softly, " if we are here I suppose 
we must be resigned." 

He laughed at her old-fashioned speech and kissed her. 
He was really not at all resigned himself, though he knew 
he must keep that a secret. His quaint little Sara had been 
a great companion to him, and he felt he should be a lonely 
fellow when, on his return to India, he went into his bunga- 
low knowing he need not expect to see the small figure in 
its white frock come forward to meet him. So he held 
her very closely in his arm as the cab rolled into the big, 
dull square in which stood the house which was their des- 

It was a big, dull, brick house, exactly like all the others 
in its row, but that on the front door there shone a brass 
plate on which was engraved in black letters : 


Miss Minchin, 
Select Seminary for Young Ladles. 

"Here we are, Sara," said Captain Crewe, making his 
voice sound as cheerful as possible. Then he lifted her out 
of the cab and they mounted the steps and rang the bell. 
Sara often thought afterward that the house was somehow 
exactly like Miss Minchin. It was respectable and well 
furnished, but everything in it was ugly ; and the very arm- 
chairs seemed to have hard bones in them. In the hall 
everything was hard and polished— even the red cheeks of 
the moon face on the tall clock in the corner had a severe 
varnished look. The drawing-room into which they were 
ushered was covered by a carpet with a square pattern upon 
it, the chairs were square, and a heavy marble timepiece 
stood upon the heavy marble mantel. 

As she sat down in one of the stiff mahogany chairs, 
Sara cast one of her quick looks about her. 

" I don't like it, papa," she said. " But then I dare say 
soldiers — even brave ones — don't really like going into 

Captain Crewe laughed outright at this. He was young 
and full of fun, and he never tired of hearing Sara's queer 

" Oh, little Sara," he said. " What shall I do when I 
have no one to say solemn things to me? No one else is 
quite as solemn as you are." 

"But why do solemn things make you laugh so?" in- 
quired Sara. 


" Because you are such fun when you say them," he an- 
swered, laughing still more. And then suddenly he swept 
her into his arms and kissed her very hard, stopping laugh- 
ing all at once and looking almost as if tears had come into 
his eyes. 

It was just then that Miss Minchin entered the room. She 
was very like her house, Sara felt: tall and dull, and respect- 
able and ugly. She had large, cold, fishy eyes, and a large, 
cold, fishy smile. It spread itself into a very large smile 
when she saw Sara and Captain Crewe. She had heard a 
great many desirable things of the young soldier from the 
lady who had recommended her school to him. Among 
other things, she had heard that he was a rich father who 
was willing to spend a great deal of money on his little 

" It will be a great privilege to have charge of such a 
beautiful and promising child. Captain Crewe," she said, 
taking Sara's hand and stroking it. " Lady Meredith has 
told me of her unusual cleverness. A clever child is a great 
treasure in an establishment like mine." 

Sara stood quietly, with her eyes fixed upon Miss Min- 
chin's face. She was thinking something odd, as usual. 

"Why does she say I am a beautiful child," she was 
thinking. " I am not beautiful at all. Colonel Grange's 
little girl, Isobel, is beautiful. She has dimples and rose- 
colored cheeks, and long hair the color of gold. I have 
short black hair and green eyes; besides which, I am a thin 
child and not fair in the least. I am one of the ugliest chil- 
dren I ever saw. She is beginning by telling a story." 


She was mistaken, however, in thinking she was an ugly 
child. She was not in the least like Isobel Grange, who had 
been the beauty of the regiment, but she had an odd charm 
of her own. She was a slim, supple creature, rather tall for 
her age, and had an intense, attractive little face. Her hair 
was heavy and quite black and only curled at the tips ; her 
eyes were greenish gray, it is true, but they were big, won- 
derful eyes with long, black lashes, and though she herself 
did not like the color of them, many other people did. Still 
she was very firm in her belief that she was an ugly little 
girl, and she was not at all elated by Miss Minchin's flat- 

" I should be telling a story if I said she was beautiful," 
she thought ; " and I should know I was telling a story. I 
believe I am as ugly as she is — in my way. What did she 
say that for?" 

After she had known Miss Minchin longer she learned 
why she had said it. She discovered that she said the same 
thing to each papa and mamma who brought a child to her 

Sara stood near her father and listened while he and Miss 
Minchin talked. She had been brought to the seminary 
because Lady Meredith's two little girls had been edu- 
cated there, and Captain Crewe had a great respect for 
Lady Meredith's experience. Sara was to be what was 
known as "a parlor-boarder," and she was to enjoy 
even greater privileges than parlor-boarders usually did. 
She was to have a pretty bedroom and sitting-room of 
her own; she was to have a pony and a carriage, and a 


maid to take the place of the ayah who had been her nurse 
in India. 

" I am not in the least anxious about her education," 
Captain Crewe said, with his gay laugh, as he held Sara's 
hand and patted it. " The difficulty will be to keep her 
from learning too fast and too much. She is always sitting 
with her little nose burrowing into books. She doesn't 
read them. Miss Minchin; she gobbles them up as if she 
were a little wolf instead of a little girl. She is always 
starving for new books to gobble, and she wants grown-up 
books — great, big, fat ones — French and German as well 
as English — history and biography and poets, and all sorts 
of things. Drag her away from her books when she reads 
too much. Make her ride her pony in the Row or go out 
and buy a new doll. She ought to play more with dolls." 

" Papa," said Sara. " You see, if I went out and bought 
a new doll every few days I should have more than I could 
be fond of. Dolls ought to be intimate friends. Emily is 
going to be my intimate friend." 

Captain Crewe looked at Miss Minchin and Miss Mfn- 
chin looked at Captain Crewe. 

" Who is Emily? " she inquired. 

" Tell her, Sara," Captain Crewe said, smiling. 

Sara's green-gray eyes looked very solemn and quite soft 
as she answered. 

" She is a doll I have n't got yet," she said. " She is a doll 
papa is going to buy for me. We are going out together to 
find her. I have called her Emily. She is going to be my 
friend when papa is gone. I want her to talk to about 

SARA 11 

Miss MInchin's large, fishy smile became very flattering 

"What an original child!" she said. "What a darling 
little creature!" 

" Yes," said Captain Crewe, drawing Sara close. " She 
is a darling little creature. Take great care of her for me. 
Miss Minchin." 

Sara stayed with her father at his hotel for several days; 
in fact, she remained with him until he sailed away again to 
India. They went out and visited many big shops to- 
gether, and bought a great many things. They bought, 
indeed, a great many more things than Sara needed; but 
Captain Crewe was a rash, innocent young man and wanted 
his little girl to have everything she admired and every- 
thing he admired himself, so between them they collected 
a wardrobe much too grand for a child of seven. There 
were velvet dresses trimmed with costly furs, and lace 
dresses, and embroidered ones, and hats with great, soft os- 
trich feathers, and ermine coats and muffs, and boxes of 
tiny gloves and handkerchiefs and silk stockings in such 
abundant supplies that the polite young women behind the 
counters whispered to each other that the odd little girl 
with the big, solemn eyes must be at least some foreign 
princess— perhaps the little daughter of an Indian rajah. 

And at last they found Emily, but they went to a num- 
ber of toy-shops and looked at a great many dolls before 
they finally discovered her. 

*' I want her to look as if she was n't a doll really," Sara 
said. " I want her to look as if she listens when I talk to 
her. The trouble with dolls, papa "—and she put her head 


on one side and reflected as she said it—" the trouble with 
dolls is that they never seem to hear." So they looked at 
big ones and little ones— at dolls with black eyes and dolls 
with blue — at dolls with brown curls and dolls with golden 
braids, dolls dressed and dolls undressed. 

*' You see," Sara said when they were examining one 
who had no clothes. '' If, when I find her, she has no frocks, 
we can take her to a dressmaker and have her things made 
to fit. They will fit better if they are tried on." 

After a number of disappointments they decided to walk 
and look in at the shop windows and let the cab follow 
them. They had passed two or three places without even 
going in, when, as they were approaching a shop which was 
really not a very large one, Sara suddenly started and 
clutched her father's arm. 

" Oh, papa! " she cried. " There is Emily! " 

A flush had risen to her face and there was an expression 
in her green-gray eyes as if she had just recognized some 
one she was intimate with and fond of. 

" She is actually waiting for us! " she said. " Let us go 
in to her." 

" Dear me! " said Captain Crewe; " I feel as if we ought 
to have some one to introduce us." 

*' You must introduce me and I will introduce you," said 
Sara. " But I knew her the minute I saw her — so perhaps 
she knew me, too." 

Perhaps she had known her. She had certainly a very 
intelligent expression in her eyes when Sara took her in her 
arms. She was a large doll, but not too large to carry about 



They decided to walk and look in at the shop windows. 

SARA 13 

easily ; she had naturally curling golden-brown hair, which 
hung like a mantle about her, and her eyes were a deep, 
clear, gray blue, with soft, thick eyelashes which were real 
eyelashes and not mere painted lines. 

" Of course," said Sara, looking into her face as she held 
her on her knee — " of course, papa, this is Emily." 

So Emily was bought and actually taken to a children's 
outfitter's shop, and measured for a wardrobe as grand as 
Sara's own. She had lace frocks, too, and velvet and mus- 
lin ones, and hats and coats and beautiful lace-trimmed 
underclothes, and gloves and handkerchiefs and furs. 

" I should like her always to look as if she was a child 
with a good mother," said Sara. " I 'm her mother, though 
I am going to make a companion of her." 

Captain Crewe would really have enjoyed the shopping 
tremendously, but that a sad thought kept tugging at his 
heart. This all meant that he was going to be separated 
from his beloved, quaint little comrade. 

He got out of his bed in the middle of that night and 
went and stood looking down at Sara, who lay asleep with 
Emily in her arms. Her black hair was spread out on the 
pillow and Emily's golden-brown hair mingled with it, both 
of them had lace-ruffled night-gowns, and both had long 
eyelashes which lay and curled up on their cheeks* Emily 
looked so like a real child that Captain Crewe felt glad she 
was there. He drew a big sigh and pulled his mustache 
with a boyish expression. 

"Heigh-ho, little Sara!" he said to himself. "I don't 
believe you know how much your daddy will miss you." 


The next day he took her to Miss Minehin's and left her 
there. He was to sail away the next morning. He ex- 
plained to Miss Minchin that his solicitors, Messrs. Barrow 
& Skipworth, had charge of his affairs in England and 
would give her any advice she wanted, and that they would 
pay the bills she sent in for Sara's expenses. He would 
write to Sara twice a week, and she was to be given every 
pleasure she asked for. 

" She is a sensible little thing, and she never wants any- 
thing it is n't safe to give her," he said. 

Then he went with Sara into her little sitting-room and 
they bade each other good-by. Sara sat on his knee and 
held the lapels of his coat in her small hands, and looked 
long and hard at his face. 

"Are you learning me by heart, little Sara," he said, 
stroking her hair. 

" No," she answered. " I know you by heart. You are 
inside my heart." And they put their arms round each 
other and kissed as if they would never let each other go. 

When the cab drove away from the door, Sara was sitting 
on the floor of her sitting-room, with her hands under her 
chin and her eyes following it until it had turned the corner 
of the square. Emily was sitting by her, and she looked 
after it, too. When Miss Minchin sent her sister, Miss 
Amelia, to see what the child was doing, she found she 
could not open the door. 

" I have locked it," said a queer, polite little voice from 
inside. " I want to be quite by myself, if you please." 

Miss Amelia was fat and dumpy, and stood very much 

SARA 15 

in awe of her sister. She was really the better-natured per- 
son of the two, but she never disobeyed Miss Minchin. She 
went down-stairs again, looking almost alarmed. 

" I never saw such a funnj^ old-fashioned child, sister," 
she said. " She has locked herself in, and she is not making 
the least particle of noise." 

" It is much better than if she kicked and screamed, as 
some of them do," Miss Minchin answered. " I expected 
that a child as much spoiled as she is would set the whole 
house in an uproar. If ever a child was given her own way 
in everything, she is." 

" I 've been opening her trunks and putting her things 
away," said Miss Amelia. " I never saw anything like 
them— sable and ermine on her coats, and real Valenciennes 
lace on her underclothing. You have seen some of her 
clothes. What do you think of them? " 

" I think they are perfectly ridiculous," replied Miss 
Minchin, sharply; " but they will look very well at the head 
of the line when we take the school-children to church on 
Sunday. She has been provided for as if she were a little 

And up-stairs in the locked room Sara and Emily sat 
on the floor and stared at the corner round which the cab 
had disappeared, while Captain Crewe looked backward, 
waving and kissing his hand as if he could not bear to stop. 



WHEN Sara entered the school-room the next 
morning everybody looked at her with wide, 
interested eyes. By that time every pupil— 
from Lavinia Herbert, who was nearly thirteen and felt 
quite grown up, to Lottie Legh, who was only just four 
and the baby of the school— had heard a great deal about 
her. They knew very certainly that she was Miss Min- 
chin's show pupil and was considered a credit to the estab- 
lishment. One or two of them had even caught a glimpse 
of her French maid, Mariette, who had arrived the evening 
before. Lavinia had managed to pass Sara's room when 
the door was open, and had seen Mariette opening a box 
which had arrived late from some shop. 

" It was full of petticoats with lace frills on them— frills 
and frills," she whispered to her friend Jessie as she bent 
over her geography. " I saw her shaking them out. I 
heard Miss Minchin say to Miss Amelia that her clothes 
were so grand that they were ridiculous for a child. My 
mamma says that children should be dressed simply. She 
has got one of those petticoats on now. I saw it when she 
sat down." 


blie was not abashed at all by the many pairs of eyes watching her 


" She has silk stockings on! " whispered Jessie, bending 
over her geography also. " And what little feet! I never 
saw such little feet." 

" Oh," sniffed Lavinia, spitefully, " that is the way her 
slippers are made. My mamma says that even big feet can 
be made to look small if you have a clever shoemaker. I 
don't think she is pretty at all. Her eyes are such a queer 

" She is n't pretty as other pretty people are," said Jessie, 
stealing a glance across the room ; " but she makes you want 
to look at her again. She has tremendously long eyelashes, 
but her eyes are almost green." 

Sara was sitting quietly in her seat, waiting to be told 
what to do. She had been placed near Miss Minchin's 
desk. She was not abashed at all by the many pairs of 
eyes watching her. She was interested and looked back 
quietly at the children who looked at her. She wondered 
what they were thinking of, and if they liked Miss Minchin, 
and if they cared for their lessons, and if any of them had 
a papa at all like her own. She had had a long talk with 
Emily about her papa that morning. 

" He is on the sea now, Emily," she had said. " We 
must be very great friends to each other and tell each other 
things. Emily, look at me. You have the nicest eyes I 
ever saw,— but I wish you could speak." 

She was a child full of imaginings and whimsical 
thoughts, and one of her fancies was that there would be a 
great deal of comfort in even pretending that Emily was 
alive and really heard and understood. After Mariette had 


dressed her in her dark-blue school-room frock and tied her 
hair with a dark-blue ribbon, she went to Emily, who sat 
in a chair of her own, and gave her a book. 

"You can read that while I am down-stairs," she said; 
and, seeing Mariette looking at her curiously, she spoke to 
her with a serious little face. 

" What I believe about dolls," she said, " is that they can 
do things they will not let us know about. Perhaps, really, 
Emily can read and talk and walk, but she will only do it 
when people are out of the room. That is her secret. You 
see, if people knew that dolls could do things, they would 
make them work. So, perhaps, they have promised each 
other to keep it a secret. If you stay in the room, Emily 
will just sit there and stare ; but if you go out, she will begin 
to read, perhaps, or go and look out of the window. Then 
if she heard either of us coming, she would just run back 
and jump into her chair and pretend she had been there all 
the time." 

"Covime elle est drole!" Mariette said to herself, and when 
she went down-stairs she told the head housemaid about it. 
But she had already begun to like this odd little girl who 
had such an intelligent small face and such perfect man- 
ners. She had taken care of children before who were not 
so polite. Sara was a very fine little person, and had a gen- 
tle, appreciative way of saying, " If you please, Mariette," 
" Thank you, Mariette," which was very charming. Mari- 
ette told the head housemaid that she thanked her as if she 
was thanking a lady. 

" Elle a Vair d'une princesse, cette petite T she said. In- 


deed, she was very much pleased with her new httle mistress 
and Hked her place greatly. 

After Sara had sat in her seat in the school-room for a 
few minutes, being looked at by the pupils, Miss Minchin 
rapped in a dignified manner upon her desk. 

" Young ladies," she said, " I wish to introduce you to 
your new companion." All the little girls rose in their 
places, and Sara rose also. " I shall expect you all to be 
very agreeable to Miss Crewe ; she has just come to us from 
a great distance— in fact, from India. As soon as lessons 
are over you must make each other's acquaintance." 

The pupils bowed ceremoniously, and Sara made a little 
courtesy, and then they sat down and looked at each other 

" Sara," said Miss Minchin in her school-room manner, 
" come here to me." 

She had taken a book from the desk and was turning over 
its leaves. Sara went to her politely. 

" As your papa has engaged a French maid for you," she 
began, " I conclude that he wishes you to make a special 
study of the French language." 

Sara felt a little awkward. 

"I think he engaged her," she said, "because he— he 
thought I would like her. Miss Minchin." 

" I am afraid," said Miss Minchin, with a slightly sour 
smile, " that you have been a very spoiled little girl and 
always imagine that things are done because you like them. 
My impression is that your papa wished you to learn 


If Sara had been older or less punctilious about being 
quite polite to people, she could have explained herself in a 
very few words. But, as it was, she felt a flush rising on 
her cheeks. Miss Minchin was a very severe and imposing 
person, and she seemed so absolutely sure that Sara knew 
nothing whatever of French that she felt as if it would be 
almost rude to correct her. The truth was that Sara could 
not remember the time when she had not seemed to know 
French. Her father had often spoken it to her when 
she had been a baby. Her mother had been a French- 
woman, and Captain Crewe had loved her language, so it 
happened that Sara had always heard and been famihar 
with it. 

" I— I have never really learned French, but— but— " 
she began, trying shyly to make herself clear. 

One of Miss Minchin's chief secret annoyances was that 
she did not speak French herself, and was desirous of con- 
cealing the irritating fact. She, therefore, had no intention 
of discussing the matter and laying herself open to inno- 
cent questioning by a new little pupil. 

" That is enough," she said with polite tartness. " If 
you have not learned, you must begin at once. The French 
master, INIonsieur Dufarge, will be here in a few minutes. 
Take this book and look at it until he arrives." 

Sara's cheeks felt warm. She went back to her seat and 
opened the book. She looked at the first page with a grave 
face. She knew it would be rude to smile, and she was very 
determined not to be rude. But it was very odd to find her- 
self expected to study a page which told her that '' le 


pere" meant "the father," and "la mere" meant "the 

Miss Minchin glanced toward her scrutinizingly. 

" You look rather cross, Sara," she said. " I am sorry 
you do not like the idea of learning French." 

" I am very fond of it," answered Sara, thinking she 
would try again ; " but—" 

" You must not say ' but ' when you are told to do 
things," said Miss Minchin. " Look at your book again." 

And Sara did so, and did not smile, even when she found 
that "le fils" meant "the son," and " le frere" meant 
"the brother." 

" When Monsieur Dufarge comes," she thought, " I can 
make him understand." 

Monsieur Dufarge arrived very shortly afterward. He 
was a very nice, intelligent, middle-aged Frenchman, and 
he looked interested when his eyes fell upon Sara trying 
politely to seem absorbed in her little book of phrases. 

" Is this a new pupil for me, madame? " he said to Miss 
Minchin. " I hope that is my good fortune." 

"Her papa— Captain Crewe— is very anxious that she 
should begin the language. But I am afraid she has a 
childish prejudice against it. She does not seem to wish to 
learn," said Miss Minchin. 

" I am sorry of that, mademoiselle," he said kindly to 
Sara. " Perhaps, when we begin to study together, I may 
show you that it is a charming tongue." 

Little Sara rose in her seat. She was beginning to feel 
rather desperate, as if she were almost in disgrace. She 


looked up into Monsieur Dufarge's face with her big, 
green-gray eyes, and they were quite innocently appealing. 
She knew that he would understand as soon as she spoke. 
She began to explain quite simply in pretty and fluent 
French. Madame had not understood. She had not 
learned French exactly,— not out of books,— but her papa 
and other people had always spoken it to her, and she had 
read it and written it as she had read and written English. 
Her papa loved it, and she loved it because he did. Her 
dear mamma, who had died when she was born, had been 
French. She would be glad to learn anything monsieur 
would teach her, but what she had tried to explain to ma- 
dame was that she already knew the words in this book — 
and she held out the little book of phrases. 

When she began to speak JNIiss Minchin started quite 
violently and sat staring at her over her eye-glasses, almost 
indignantly, until she had finished. Monsieur Dufarge 
began to smile, and his smile was one of great pleasure. To 
hear this pretty childish voice speaking his own language so 
simply and charmingly made him feel almost as if he were 
in his natiive land — which in dark, foggy days in London 
sometimes seemed worlds away. When she had finished, 
he took the phrase-book from her, with a look almost affec- 
tionate. But he spoke to Miss Minchin. 

" Ah, madame," he said, " there is not much I can teach 
her. She has not learned French ; she is French. Her ac- 
cent is exquisite." 

" You ought to have told me," exclaimed Miss Minchin, 
much mortified, turning on Sara. 


" I— I tried," said Sara. " I— I suppose I did not begin 

^liss Minchin knew she had tried, and that it had not 
been her fault that she was not allowed to explain. And 
when she saw that the pupils had been listening and that 
Lavinia and Jessie were giggling behind their French 
grammars, she felt infuriated. 

" Silence, young ladies! " she said severely, rapping upon 
the desk. " Silence at once! " 

And she began from that minute to feel rather a grudge 
against her show pupil. 



ON that first morning, when Sara sat at Miss Min- 
( chin's side, aware that the whole school-room was 
devoting itself to observing her, she had noticed 
very soon one little girl, about her own age, who looked at 
her very hard with a pair of light, rather dull, blue eyes. She 
was a fat child who did not look as if she were in the least 
clever, but she had a good-naturedly pouting mouth. Her 
flaxen hair was braided in a tight pigtail, tied with a rib- 
bon, and she had pulled this pigtail round her neck, and 
was biting the end of the ribbon, resting her elbows on the 
desk, as she stared wonderingly at the new pupil. When 
Monsieur Dufarge began to speak to Sara, she looked a 
little frightened; and when Sara stepped forward and, 
looking at him with the innocent, appealing eyes, answered 
him, without any warning, in French, the fat little girl gave 
a startled jump, and grew quite red in her awed amaze- 
ment. Having wept hopeless tears for weeks in her efforts 
to remember that " la mere " meant " the mother," and " le 
pere" "the father,"— when one spoke sensible English,— 
it was almost too much for her to suddenly find herself 
listening to a child her own age who seemed not only quite 



familiar with these words, but apparently knew any num- 
ber of others, and could mix them up with verbs as if they 
were mere trifles. 

She stared so hard and bit the ribbon on her pigtail so 
fast that she attracted the attention of Miss Minchin, who, 
feeling extremely cross at the moment, immediately 
pounced upon her. 

"Miss St. John!" she exclaimed severely. "What do 
you mean by such conduct? Remove your elbows! Take 
your ribbon out of your mouth ! Sit up at once ! " 

Upon which Miss St. John gave another jump, and 
when Lavinia and Jessie tittered she became redder than 
ever — so red, indeed, that she almost looked as if tears were 
coming into her poor, dull, childish eyes ; and Sara saw her 
and was so sorry for her that she began to rather like her 
and want to be her friend. It was a way of hers always to 
want to spring into any fray in which some one was made 
uncomfortable or unhappy. 

" If Sara had been a boy and lived a few centuries ago," 
her father used to say, " she would have gone about the 
country with her sword drawn, rescuing and defending 
every one in distress. She always wants to fight when she 
sees people in trouble." 

So she took rather a fancy to fat, slow, little Miss St. 
John, and kept glancing toward her through the morning. 
She saw that lessons were no easy matter to her, and that 
there was no danger of her ever being spoiled by being 
treated as a show pupil. Her French lesson was a pathetic 
thing. Her pronunciation made even Monsieur Dufarge 


smile in spite of himself, and Lavinia and Jessie and the 
more fortunate girls either giggled or looked at her in won- 
dering disdain. But Sara did not laugh. She tried to look 
as if she did not hear when Miss St. John called " le bon 
pain" " lee hong pang." She had a fine, hot little temper 
of her own, and it made her feel rather savage when she 
heard the titters and saw the poor, stupid, distressed child's 

"It isn't funny, really," she said between her teeth, as 
she bent over her book. " They ought not to laugh." 

When lessons were over and the pupils gathered to- 
gether in groups to talk, Sara looked for Miss St. John, 
and finding her bundled rather disconsolately in a window- 
seat, she walked over to her and spoke. She only said 
the kind of thing little girls always say to each other 
by way of beginning an acquaintance, but there was some- 
thing nice and friendly about Sara, and people always 
felt it. 

" What is your name? " she said. 

To explain Miss St. John's amazement one must recall 
that a new pupil is, for a short time, a somewhat uncertain 
thing; and of this new pupil the entire school had talked 
the night before until it fell asleep quite exhausted by ex- 
citement and contradictory stories. A new pupil with a 
carriage and a pony and a maid, and a voyage from India 
to discuss, was not an ordinary acquaintance. 

" My name 's Ermengarde St. John," she answered. 

" Mine is Sara Crewe," said Sara. " Yours is very 
pretty. It sounds like a story-book." 


*'Do you like it?" fluttered Ermengarde. "I— I like 

Miss St. John's chief trouble in life was that she had a 
clever father. Sometimes this seemed to her a dreadful ca- 
lamity. If you have a father who knows everything, who 
speaks seven or eight languages, and has thousands of 
volumes which he has apparently learned by heart, he fre- 
quently expects you to be familiar with the contents of 
your lesson-books at least ; and it is not improbable that he 
will feel you ought to be able to remember a few incidents 
of history and to write a French exercise. Ermengarde 
was a severe trial to Mr. St. John. He could not under- 
stand how a child of his could be a notably and unmistak- 
ably dull creature who never shone in anything. 

" Good heavens ! " he had said more than once, as he 
stared at her, " there are times when I think she is as stupid 
as her Aunt Eliza ! " 

If her Aunt Eliza had been slow to learn and quick to 
forget a thing entirely when she had learned it, Ermen- 
garde was strikingly like her. She was the monumental 
dunce of the school, and it could not be denied. 

" She must be made to learn," her father said to Miss 

Consequently Ermengarde spent the greater part of her 
life in disgrace or in tears. She learned things and forgot 
them ; or, if she remembered them, she did not understand 
them. So it was natural that, having made Sara's acquain- 
tance, she should sit and stare at her with profound admi- 


"You can speak French, can't you?" she said respect- 

Sara got on to the window-seat, which was a big, deep 
one, and, tucking up her feet, sat with her hands clasped 
round her knees. 

" I can speak it because I have heard it all my life," 
she answered. " You could speak it if you had always 
heard it." 

" Oh, no, I could n't," said Ermengarde. " I never could 
speak it!" 

" Why? " inquired Sara, curiously. 

Ermengarde shook her head so that the pigtail wabbled. 

" You heard me just now," she said. " I 'm always like 
that. I can't say the words. They 're so queer." 

She paused a moment, and then added with a touch of 
awe in her voice: 

" You are clever, are n't you? " 

Sara looked out of the window into the dingy square, 
where the sparrows were hopping and twittering on the 
wet, iron railings and the sooty branches of the trees. She 
reflected a few moments. She had heard it said very often 
that she was " clever," and she wondered if she was,— and 
if she was, how it had happened. 

" I don't know," she said. " I can't tell." Then, seeing 
a mournful look on the round, chubby face, she gave a little 
laugh and changed the subject. 

"Would you like to see Emily?" she inquired. 

" Who is Emily? " Ermengarde asked, just as Miss Min- 
chin had done. 


" Come up to my room and see," said Sara, holding out 
her hand. 

They jumped down from the window-seat together, and 
went up-stairs. 

" Is it true," Ermengarde whispered, as they went 
through the hall—" is it true that you have a play -room all 
to yourself?" 

" Yes," Sara answered. " Papa asked Miss Minchin to 
let me have one, because— well, it was because when I play 
I make up stories and tell them to myself, and I don't like 
people to hear me. It spoils it if I think people listen." 

They had reached the passage leading to Sara's room 
by this time, and Ermengarde stopped short, staring, and 
quite losing her breath. 

" You make up stories! " she gasped. " Can you do that 
— as well as speak French? Can you?" 

Sara looked at her in simple surprise. 

" Why, any one can make up things," she said. " Have 
you never tried?" 

She put her hand warningly on Ermengarde's. 

" Let us go very quietly to the door," she whispered, 
"and then I will open it quite suddenly; perhaps we may 
catch her." 

She was half laughing, but there was a touch of myste- 
rious hope in her eyes which fascinated Ermengarde, 
though she had not the remotest idea what it meant, or 
whom it was she wanted to " catch," or why she wanted to 
catch her. Whatsoever she meant, Ermengarde was sure 
it was something delightfully exciting. So, quite thrilled 


with expectation, she followed her on tiptoe along the pas- 
sage. They made not the least noise until they reached 
the door. Then Sara suddenly turned the handle, and 
threw it wide open. Its opening revealed the room quite 
neat and quiet, a fire gently burning in the grate, and a 
wonderful doll sitting in a chair by it, apparently reading 
a book. 

" Oh, she got back to her seat before we could see her! " 
Sara exclaimed. " Of course they always do. They are as 
quick as lightning." 

Ermengarde looked from her to the doll and back again. 

"Can she— walk?" she asked breathlessly. 

" Yes," answered Sara. " At least I believe she can. At 
least I jjretend I believe she can. And that makes it seem 
as if it were true. Have you never pretended things?" 

"No," said Ermengarde. "Never. I— tell me about 

She was so bewitched by this odd, new companion that 
she actually stared at Sara instead of at Emily — notwith- 
standing that Emily was the most attractive doll person 
she had ever seen. 

" Let us sit down," said Sara, " and I will tell you. It 's 
so easy that when you begin you can't stop. You just go 
on and on doing it always. And it 's beautiful. Emily, 
you must listen. This is Ermengarde St. John, Emily. 
Ermengarde, this is Emil5^ Would you like to hold her? " 

" Oh, may I? " said Ermengarde. " May I, really? She 
is beautiful!" And Emily was put into her arms. 

Never in her dull, short life had Miss St. John dreamed 
of such an hour as the one she spent with the queer new 


pupil before they heard the lunch-bell ring and were 
obliged to go down-stairs. 

Sara sat upon the hearth-rug and told her strange things. 
She sat rather huddled up, and her green eyes shone and 
her cheeks flushed. She told stories of the voyage, and 
stories of India; but what fascinated Ermengarde the 
most was her fancy about the dolls who walked and talked, 
and who could do anything they chose when the human 
beings were out of the room, but w^ho must keep their pow- 
ers a secret and so flew back to their places " like lightning " 
when people returned to the room. 

" We could n't do it," said Sara, seriously. " You see, 
it 's a kind of magic." 

Once, when she was relating the story of the search for 
Emily, Ermengarde saw her face suddenly change. A 
cloud seemed to pass over it and put out the light in her 
shining eyes. She drew her breath in so sharply that it 
made a funny, sad little sound, and then she shut her lips 
and held them tightly closed, as if she was determined 
either to do or not to do something. Ermengarde had an 
idea that if she had been like any other little girl, she might 
have suddenly burst out sobbing and crying. But she did 

" Have you a — a pain? " Ermengarde ventured. 

" Yes," Sara answered, after a moment's silence. " But 
it is not in my body." Then she added something in 
a low voice which she tried to keep quite steady, and it was 
this: " Do you love your father more than anything else in 
all the whole world? " 

Ermengarde's mouth fell open a little. She knew that 


it would be far from behaving like a respectable child at a 
select seminary to say that it had never occurred to you 
that you could love your father, that you would do any- 
thing desperate to avoid being left alone in his society for 
ten minutes. She was, indeed, greatly embarrassed. 

"I — I scarcely ever see him," she stammered. "He is 
always in the library — reading things." 

" I love mine more than all the world ten times over," 
Sara said. " That is what my pain is. He has gone away." 

She put her head quietly down on her little, huddled-up 
knees, and sat very still for a few minutes. 

" She 's going to cry out loud," thought Ermengarde, 

But she did not. Her short, black locks tumbled about 
her ears, and she sat still. Then she spoke without lifting 
her head. 

" I promised him I would bear it," she said. " And I 
will. You have to bear things. Think what soldiers bear ! 
Papa is a soldier. If there was a war he would have to bear 
marching and thirstiness and, perhaps, deep wounds. And 
he would never say a word— not one word." 

Ermengarde could only gaze at her, but she felt that she 
was beginning to adore her. She was so wonderful and 
different from any one else. 

Presently, she lifted her face and shook back her black 
locks, with a queer httle smile. 

" If I go on talking and talking," she said, " and telling 
you things about pretending, I shall bear it better. You 
don't forget, but you bear it better." 


Ermengarde did not know why a lump came into her 
throat and her eyes felt as if tears were in them. 

" Lavinia and Jessie are ' best friends,' " she said rather 
huskily. " I wish we could be ' best friends.' Would you 
have me for yours ? You 're clever, and I 'm the stupidest 
child in the school, but I — oh, I do so like you!" 

" I 'm glad of that," said Sara. " It makes you thank- 
ful when you are liked. Yes. We will be friends. And 
I'll tell you what" — a sudden gleam lighting her face — 
" I can help you with your French lessons." 



IF Sara had been a different kind of child, the life she 
led at Miss Minchin's Select Seminary for the next 
ten years would not have been at all good for her. 
She was treated more as if she were a distinguished guest at 
the establishment than as if she were a mere little girl. If 
she had been a self-opinionated, domineering child, she 
might have become disagreeable enough to be unbearable 
through being so much indulged and flattered. If she had 
been an indolent child, she would have learned nothing. 
Privately Miss Minchin disliked her, but she was far too 
worldly a woman to do or say anything which might make 
such a desirable pupil wish to leave her school. She knew 
quite well that if Sara wrote to her papa to tell him she was 
uncomfortable or unhappy. Captain Crewe would remove 
her at once. Miss Minchin's opinion was that if a child 
were continually praised and never forbidden to do what 
she liked, she would be sure to be fond of the place where 
she was so treated. Accordingly, Sara was praised for her 
quickness at her lessons, for her good manners, for her ami- 
ability to her fellow-pupils, for her generosity if she gave 
sixpence to a beggar out of her full little purse ; the sim- 



plest thing she did was treated as if it were a virtue, and if 
she had not had a disposition and a clever httle brain, she 
might have been a very self-satisfied young person. But 
the clever little brain told her a great many sensible and 
true things about herself and her circumstances, and now 
and then she talked these things over to Ermengarde as 
time went on. 

" Things happen to people by accident," she used to say. 
"A lot of nice accidents have happened to me. It just 
happened that I always liked lessons and books, and could 
remember things when I learned them. It just happened 
that I was born with a father who was beautiful and nice 
and clever, and could give me everything I liked. Perhaps 
I have not really a good temper at all, but if you have 
everything you want and every one is kind to you, how can 
you help but be good-tempered? I don't know " — looking 
quite serious — "how I shall ever find out whether I am 
really a nice child or a horrid one. Perhaps I 'm a hideous 
child, and no one will ever know, just because I never have 
any trials." 

" Lavinia has no trials," said Ermengarde, stolidly, " and 
she is horrid enough." 

Sara i*ubbed the end of her little nose reflectively, as she 
thought the matter over. 

" Well," she said at last, " perhaps— perhaps that is be- 
cause Lavinia is growing" 

This was the result of a charitable recollection of having 
heard Miss Amelia say that Lavinia was growing so fast 
that she believed it afl'ected her health and temper. 


Lavinia, in fact, was spiteful. She was inordinately 
jealous of Sara. Until the new pupil's arrival, she had felt 
herself the leader in the school. She had led because she 
was capable of making herself extremely disagreeable if 
the others did not follow her. She domineered over the lit- 
tle children, and assumed grand airs with those big enough 
to be her companions. She was rather pretty, and had 
been the best-dressed pupil in the procession when the 
Select Seminary walked out two by two, until Sara's velvet 
coats and sable muffs appeared, combined with drooping 
ostrich feathers, and were led by Miss Minchin at the head 
of the line. This, at the beginning, had been bitter enough ; 
but as time went on it became apparent that Sara was a 
leader, too, and not because she could make herself disa- 
greeable, but because she never did. 

" There 's one thing about Sara Crewe," Jessie had en- 
raged her " best friend " by saying honestly,—" she 's never 
' grand ' about herself the least bit, and you know she might 
be, Lavvie. I believe I couldn't help being — just a little 
—if I had so many fine things and was made such a fuss 
over. It 's disgusting, the way Miss Minchin shows her off 
when parents come." 

" ' Dear Sara must come into the drawing-room and talk 
to Mrs. Musgrave about India,' " mimicked Lavinia, in her 
most highly flavored imitation of Miss Minchin. " ' Dear 
Sara must speak French to Lady Pitkin. Her accent is so 
perfect.' She did n't learn her French at the Seminary, at 
any rate. And there 's nothing so clever in her knowing it. 
She says herself she did n't learn it at all. She just picked 


it up, because she always heard her papa speak it. And, as 
to her papa, there is nothing so grand in being an Indian 

"Well," said Jessie, slowly, "he's killed tigers. He 
killed the one in the skin Sara has in her room. That 's why 
she likes it so. She Hes on it and strokes its head, and talks 
to it as if it was a cat." 

" She 's always doing something silly," snapped La- 
vinia. " My mamma says that way of hers of pretending 
things is silly. She says she will grow up eccentric." 

It was quite true that Sara was never " grand." She was 
a friendly little soul, and shared her privileges and belong- 
ings with a free hand. The little ones, who were accus- 
tomed to being disdained and ordered out of the way by 
mature ladies aged ten and twelve, were never made to 
cry by this most envied of them all. She was a motherly 
young person, and when people fell down and scraped their 
knees, she ran and helped them up and patted them, or 
found in her pocket a bonbon or some other article of a 
soothing nature. She never pushed them out of her way 
or alluded to their years as a humiliation and a blot upon 
their small characters. 

" If you are four you are four," she said severely to La- 
vinia on an occasion of her having — it must be confessed — 
slapped Lottie and called her "a brat"; "but you will be 
five next year, and six the year after that. And," opening 
large, convicting eyes, " it only takes sixteen years to make 
you twenty." 

" Dear me ! " said Lavinia ; " how we can calculate ! " In 


fact, it was not to be denied that sixteen and four made 
twenty,— and twenty was an age the most daring were 
scarcely bold enough to dream of. 

So the younger children adored Sara. More than once 
she had been known to have a tea-party, made up of these 
despised ones, in her own room. And Emily had been 
played with, and Emily's own tea-service used— the one 
with cups which held quite a lot of much-sweetened weak 
tea and had blue flowers on them. No one had seen such 
a very real doll's tea-set before. From that afternoon Sara 
was regarded as a goddess and a queen by the entire alpha- 
bet class. 

Lottie Legh worshipped her to such an extent that if 
Sara had not been a motherly person, she would have found 
her tiresome. Lottie had been sent to school by a rather 
flighty young papa who could not imagine what else to do 
with her. Her young mother had died, and as the child had 
been treated like a favorite doll or a very spoiled pet mon- 
key or lap-dog ever since the first hour of her life, she was a 
very appalling little creature. When she wanted anything 
or did not want anything she wept and howled ; and, as she 
always wanted the things she could not have, and did not 
want the things that were best for her, her shrill little voice 
was usually to be heard uplifted in wails in one part of the 
house or another. 

Her strongest weapon was that in some mysterious way 
she had found out that a very small girl who had lost her 
mother was a person who ought to be pitied and made 
much of. She had probably heard some grown-up people 

More than once she had l)een known to have a tea-party 


talking her over in the early days, after her mother's 
death. So it became her habit to make great use of this 

The first time Sara took her in charge was one morning 
when, on passing a sitting-room, she heard both Miss Min- 
chin and INIiss Amelia trying to suppress the angry wails 
of some child who, evidently, refused to be silenced. She 
refused so strenuously indeed that Miss Minchin was 
obliged to almost shout— in a stately and severe manner— 
to make herself heard. 

"What is she crying for?" she almost yelled. 

" Oh— oh— oh ! " Sara heard ; " I have n't got any mam— 
ma-a ! 

"Oh, Lottie!" screamed Miss Amelia. "Do stop, dar- 
ling ! Don't cry ! Please don't ! " 

" Oh ! oh ! oh ! " Lottie howled tempestuously. " Have n't 
— got — any — mam — ma-a ! " 

" She ought to be whipped," Miss ^linchin proclaimed. 
"You shall be whipped, you naughty child!" 

Lottie wailed more loudly than ever. Miss Amelia be- 
gan to cry. Miss Minchin's voice rose until it almost thun- 
dered, then suddenly she sprang up from her chair in impo- 
tent indignation and flounced out of the room, leaving Miss 
Amelia to arrange the matter. 

Sara had paused in the hall, wondering if she ought to 
go into the room, because she had recently begun a friendly 
acquaintance with Lottie and might be able to quiet her. 
When Miss Minchin came out and saw her, she looked 
rather annoyed. She realized that her voice, as heard from 


inside the room, could not have sounded either dignified or 

"Oh, Sara!" she exclaimed, endeavoring to produce a 
suitable smile. 

" I stopped," explained Sara, " because I knew it was 
Lottie,— and I thought, perhaps— just perhaps, I could 
make her be quiet. INIay I try. Miss Minchin? " 

" If you can. You are a clever child," answered Miss 
Minchin, drawing in her mouth sharply. Then, seeing that 
Sara looked slightly chilled by her asperity, she changed 
her manner. " But you are clever in everything," she said 
in her approving way. " I dare say you can manage her. 
Go in." And she left her. 

When Sara entered the room, Lottie was lying upon the 
floor, screaming and kicking her small fat legs violently, 
and JNIiss Amelia was bending over her in consternation 
and despair, looking quite red and damp with heat. Lottie 
had always found, when in her own nursery at home, that 
kicking and screaming would always be quieted by any 
means she insisted on. Poor plump Miss Amelia was try- 
ing first one method, and then another. 

"Poor darling!" she said one moment; "I know you 
have n't any mamma, poor—" Then in quite another tone : 
" If you don't stop, Lottie, I will shake you. Poor little 
angel! There— there! You wicked, bad, detestable child, 
I will smack you! I will!" 

Sara went to them quietly. She did not know at all what 
she was going to do, but she had a vague inward conviction 
that it would be better not to say such different kinds of 
things quite so helplessly and excitedly. 


" Miss Amelia," she said in a low voice, " Miss Minchin 
says I may try to make her stop — may I?" 

Miss Amelia turned and looked at her hopelessly. " Oh, 
do you think you can? " she gasped. 

" I don't know whether I can," answered Sara, still in 
her half -whisper ; "but I will try." 

Miss Amelia stumbled up from her knees with a heavy 
sigh, and Lottie's fat little legs kicked as hard as ever. 

" If you will steal out of the room," said Sara, " I will 
stay with her." 

"Oh, Sara!" almost whimpered Miss Amelia. "We 
never had such a dreadful child before. I don't believe we 
can keep her." 

But she crept out of the room, and was very much re- 
lieved to find an excuse for doing it. 

Sara stood by the howling, furious child for a few mo- 
ments, and looked down at her without saying anything. 
Then she sat down flat on the floor beside her and waited. 
Except for Lottie's angry screams, the room was quite 
quiet. This was a new state of aff^airs for little Miss Legh, 
who was accustomed, when she screamed, to hear other peo- 
ple protest and implore and command and coax by turns. 
To lie and kick and shriek, and find the only person near 
you not seeming to mind in the least, attracted her atten- 
tion. She opened her tight-shut streaming eyes to see who 
this person was. And it was only another little girl. But 
it was the one who owned Emily and all the nice things. 
And she was looking at her steadily and as if she was 
merely thinking. Having paused for a few seconds to find 
this out, Lottie thought she must begin again, but the quiet 


of the room and of Sara's odd, interested face made her 
first howl rather half-hearted. 

"I— have n't— any— ma— ma— ma-a!" she announced; 
but her voice was not so strong. 

Sara looked at her still more steadily, but with a sort of 
understanding in her eyes. 

" Neither have I," she said. 

This was so unexpected that it was astounding. Lottie 
actually dropped her legs, gave a wriggle, and lay and 
stared. A new idea will stop a crying child when nothing 
else will. Also it was true that while Lottie disliked Miss 
Minchin, who was cross, and Miss Amelia, who was fool- 
ishly indulgent, she rather liked Sara, little as she knew her. 
She did not want to give up her grievance, but her thoughts 
were distracted from it, so she wriggled again, and, after a 
sulky sob, said : 

"Where is she?" 

Sara paused a moment. Because she had been told that 
her mamma was in heaven, she had thought a great deal 
about the matter, and her thoughts had not been quite like 
those of other people. 

" She went to heaven," she said. " But I am sure she 
comes out sometimes to see me — though I don't see her. 
So does yours. Perhaps they can both see us now. Per- 
haps they are both in this room." 

Lottie sat bolt upright, and looked about her. She 
was a pretty, little, curly-headed creature, and her round 
eyes were like wet forget-me-nots. If her mamma had 
seen her during the last half -hour, she might not have 


thought her the kind of child who ought to be related to 
an angel. 

Sara went on talking. Perhaps some people might think 
that what she said was rather like a fairy story, but it was 
all so real to her own imagination that Lottie began to lis- 
ten in spite of herself. She had been told that her mamma 
had wings and a crown, and she had been shown pictures of 
ladies in beautiful white night-gowns, who were said to be 
angels. But Sara seemed to be telling a real story about a 
lovely country where real people were. 

" There are fields and fields of flowers," she said, forget- 
ting herself, as usual, when she began, and talking rather 
as if she were in a dream—" fields and fields of lilies— and 
when the soft wind blows over them it wafts the scent of 
them into the air— and everybody always breathes it, be- 
cause the soft wind is always blowing. And little children 
run about in the hly-fields and gather armsful of them, 
and laugh and make little wreaths. And the streets are 
shining. And no one is ever tired, however far they walk. 
They can float anywhere they like. And there are walls 
made of pearl and gold all round the city, but they are low 
enough for the people to go and lean on them, and look 
down on to the earth and smile, and send beautiful mes- 

Whatsoever story she had begun to tell, Lottie would, no 
doubt, have stopped crying, and been fascinated into listen- 
ing; but there was no denying that this story was prettier 
than most others. She dragged herself close to Sara, and 
drank in every word until the end came— far too soon. 


When it did come, she was so sorry that she put up her lip 

"I want to go there," she cried. "I— have n't any 
mamma in this school." 

Sara saw the danger-signal, and came out of her dream. 
She took hold of the chubby hand and pulled her close to 
her side with a coaxing little laugh. 

" I will be your mamma," she said. " We will play that 
you are my little girl. And Emily shall be your sister." 

Lottie's dimples all began to show themselves. 

"Shall she? "she said. 

" Yes," answered Sara, jumping to her feet. " Let us 
go and tell her. And then I will wash your face and brush 
your hair." 

To which Lottie agreed quite cheerfully, and trotted out 
of the room and up-stairs with her, without seeming even 
to remember that the whole of the last hour's tragedy had 
been caused by the fact that she had refused to be washed 
and brushed for lunch and Miss Minchin had been called 
in to use her majestic authority. 

And from that time Sara was an adopted mother. 



OF course the greatest power Sara possessed and the 
I one which gained her even more followers than 
her luxuries and the fact that she was " the show 
pupil," the power that Lavinia and certain other girls 
were most envious of, and at the same time most fascinated 
by in spite of themselves, was her power of telling stories 
and of making everything she talked about seem like a 
story, whether it was one or not. 

Any one who has been at school with a teller of stories 
knows what the wonder means — how he or she is followed 
about and besought in a whisper to relate romances; how 
groups gather round and hang on the outskirts of the fa- 
vored party in the hope of being allowed to join it and 
hsten. Sara not only could tell stories, but she adored tell- 
ing them. When she sat or stood in the midst of a circle 
and began to invent wonderful things, her green eyes grew 
big and shining, her cheeks flushed, and, without knowing 
that she was doing it, she began to act and made what she 
told lovely or alarming by the raising or dropping of her 
voice, the bend and sway of her slim body, and the dramatic 
movement of her hands. She forgot that she was talking 


to listening children ; she saw and lived with the fairy folk, 
or the kings and queens and beautiful ladies, whose adven- 
tures she was narrating. Sometimes when she had finished 
her story, she was quite out of breath with excitement, and 
would lay her hand on her thin, little, quick-rising chest, 
and half laugh as if at herself. 

" When I am telling it," she would say, " it does n't seem 
as if it was only made up. It seems more real than you 
are— more real than the school-room. I feel as if I were 
all the people in the story — one after the other. It is 

She had been at Miss Minchin's school about two years 
when, one foggy winter's afternoon, as she was getting 
out of her carriage, comfortably wrapped up in her warm- 
est velvets and furs and looking very much grander than 
she knew, she caught sight, as she crossed the pavement, 
of a dingy little figure standing on the area steps, and 
stretching its neck so that its wide-open eyes might peer at 
her through the raihngs. Something in the eagerness and 
timidity of the smudgy face made her look at it, and when 
she looked she smiled because it was her way to smile at 

But the owner of the smudgy face and the wide-open 
eyes evidently was afraid that she ought not to have been 
caught looking at pupils of importance. She dodged out 
of sight like a Jack-in-the-box and scurried back into the 
kitchen, disappearing so suddenly that if she had not been 
such a poor, little forlorn thing, Sara would have laughed 
in spite of herself. That very evening, as Sara was sitting 

When she sat in tlie midst of a circle and began to invent wonderful things 


in the midst of a group of listeners in a corner of the school- 
room telling one of her stories, the very same figure tim- 
idly entered the room, carrying a coal-box much too heavy 
for her, and knelt down upon the hearth-rug to replenish 
the fire and sweep up the ashes. 

She was cleaner than she had been when she peeped 
through the area railings, but she looked just as frightened. 
She was evidently afraid to look at the children or seem to 
be listening. She put on pieces of coal cautiously with her 
fingers so that she might make no disturbing noise, and 
she swept about the fire-irons very softly. But Sara saw 
in two minutes that she was deeply interested in what was 
going on, and that she was doing her work slowly in the 
hope of catching a word here and there. And realizing 
this, she raised her voice and spoke more clearly. 

" The Mermaids swam softly about in the crystal-green 
water, and dragged after them a fishing-net woven of deep- 
sea pearls," she said. " The Princess sat on the white rock 
and watched them." 

It was a wonderful story about a princess who was loved 
by a Prince Merman, and went to live with him in shining 
caves under the sea. 

The small drudge before the grate swept the hearth once 
and then swept it again. Having done it twice, she did it 
three times; and, as she was doing it the third time, the 
sound of the story so lured her to listen that she fell under 
the spell and actually forgot that she had no right to listen 
at all, and also forgot everything else. She sat down upon 
her heels as she knelt on the hearth-rug, and the brush hung 


idly in her fingers. The voice of the story-teller went on 
and drew her with it into winding grottos under the sea, 
glowing with soft, clear blue light, and paved with pure 
golden sands. Strange sea flowers and grasses waved 
about her, and far away faint singing and music echoed. 

The hearth-brush fell from the work-roughened hand, 
and Lavinia Herbert looked round. 

" That girl has been listening," she said. 

The culprit snatched up her brush, and scrambled to her 
feet. She caught at the coal-box and simply scuttled out 
of the room like a frightened rabbit. 

Sara felt rather hot-tempered. 

" I knew she was listening," she said. " Why shouldn't 

Lavinia tossed her head with great elegance. 

" Well," she remarked, " I do not know whether your 
mamma would hke you to tell stories to servant girls, but I 
know 7ny mamma would n't like me to do it." 

"My mamma!" said Sara, looking odd. "I don't be- 
lieve she would mind in the least. She knows that stories 
belong to everybody." 

" I thought," retorted Lavinia, in severe recollection, 
"that your mamma was dead. How can she know things?" 

" Do you think she does 71 1 know things? " said Sara, in 
her stern little voice. Sometimes she had a rather stern 
little voice. 

" Sara's mamma knows everything," piped in Lottie. 
" So does my mamma — 'cept Sara is my mamma at Miss 
^linchin's— my other one knows everything. The streets 


are shining, and there are fields and fields of lilies, and 
everybody gathers them. Sara tells me when she puts me 
to bed." 

"You wicked thing," said Lavinia, turning on Sara; 
" making fairy stories about heaven." 

" There are much more splendid stories in Revelation," 
returned Sara. "Just look and see! How do you know 
mine are fairy stories? But I can tell you " — with a fine bit 
of unheavenly temper— "you will never find out whether 
they are or not if you 're not kinder to people than you are 
now. Come along, Lottie." And she marched out of the 
room, rather hoping that she might see the little servant 
again somewhere, but she found no trace of her when she 
got into the hall. 

" Who is that little girl who makes the fires? " she asked 
Mariette that night. 

Mariette broke forth into a flow of description. 

Ah, indeed. Mademoiselle Sara might well ask. She 
was a forlorn little thing who had just taken the place of 
scullery-maid— though, as to being scullery -maid, she was 
everything else besides. She blacked boots and grates, and 
carried heavy coal-scuttles up and down stairs, and 
scrubbed floors and cleaned windows, and was ordered 
about by everybody. She was fourteen years old, but was 
so stunted in growth that she looked about twelve. In 
truth, Mariette was sorry for her. She was so timid that 
if one chanced to speak to her it appeared as if her poor, 
frightened eyes would jump out of her head. 

"What is her name?" asked Sara, who had sat by the 


table, with her chin on her hands, as she Hstened absorbedly 
to the recital. 

Her name was Becky. Mariette heard every one below- 
stairs calling, " Becky, do this," and " Becky, do that," 
every five minutes in the day. 

Sara sat and looked into the fire, reflecting on Becky for 
some time after Mariette left her. She made up a story 
of which Becky was the ill-used heroine. She thought she 
looked as if she had never had quite enough to eat. Her 
very eyes were hungry. She hoped she should see her 
again, but though she caught sight of her carrying things 
up or down stairs on several occasions, she always seemed in 
such a hurry and so afraid of being seen that it was impos- 
sible to speak to her. 

But a few weeks later, on another foggy afternoon, 
when she entered her sitting-room she found herself con- 
fronting a rather pathetic picture. In her own special 
and pet easy-chair before the bright fire, Becky— with a 
coal smudge on her nose and several on her apron, with 
her poor little cap hanging half off her head, and an 
empty coal-box on the floor near her — sat fast asleep, tired 
out beyond even the endurance of her hard-working young 
body. She had been sent up to put the bedrooms in order 
for the evening. There were a great many of them, and 
she had been running about all day. Sara's rooms she had 
saved until the last. They were not like the other rooms, 
which were plain and bare. Ordinary pupils were expected 
to be satisfied with mere necessaries, Sara's comfortable 
sitting-room seemed a bower of luxury to the scullery-maid, 


though it was, in fact, merely a nice, bright httle room. 
But there were pictures and books in it, and curious things 
from India ; there was a sofa and the low, soft chair ; Emily 
sat in a chair of her own, with the air of a presiding god- 
dess, and there was always a glowing fire and a polished 
grate. Becky saved it until the end of her afternoon's 
work, because it rested her to go into it, and she always 
hoped to snatch a few minutes to sit down in the soft chair 
and look about her, and think about the wonderful good 
fortune of the child who owned such surroundings and who 
went out on the cold days in beautiful hats and coats one 
tried to catch a glimpse of through the area railing. 

On this afternoon, when she had sat down, the sensation 
of relief to her short, aching legs had been so wonderful 
and delightful that it had seemed to soothe her whole body, 
and the glow of warmth and comfort from the fire had 
crept over her like a spell, until, as she looked at the red 
coals, a tired, slow smile stole over her smudged face, her 
head nodded forward without her being aware of it, her 
eyes drooped, and she fell fast asleep. She had really been 
only about ten minutes in the room when Sara entered, but 
she was in as deep a sleep as if she had been, like the Sleep- 
ing Beauty, slumbering for a hundred years. But she did 
not look— poor Becky!— like a Sleeping Beauty at all. 
She looked only like an ugly, stunted, worn-out little scul- 
lery drudge. 

Sara seemed as much unlike her as if she were a creature 
from another world. 

On this particular afternoon she had been taking her 


dancing-lesson, and the afternoon on which the dancing- 
master appeared was rather a grand occasion at the semi- 
nary, though it occurred every week. The pupils were 
attired in their prettiest frocks, and as Sara danced 
particularly well, she was very much brought forward, and 
Mariette was requested to make her as diaphanous and fine 
as possible. 

To-day a frock the color of a rose had been put on her, 
and Mariette had bought some real buds and made her a 
wreath to wear on her black locks. She had been learning 
a new, delightful dance in which she had been skimming 
and flying about the room, like a large rose-colored butter- 
fly, and the enjoyment and exercise had brought a brilliant, 
happy glow into her face. 

When she entered the room, she floated in with a few 
of the butterfly steps,— and there sat Becky, nodding her 
cap sideways ofl" her head. 

"Oh!" cried Sara, softly, when she saw her. "That 
poor thing!" 

It did not occur to her to feel cross at finding her pet 
chair occupied by the small, dingy figure. To tell the 
truth, she was quite glad to find it there. When the ill- 
used heroine of her story wakened, she could talk to her. 
She crept toward her quietly, and stood looking at her. 
Becky gave a little snore. 

" I wish she 'd waken herself," Sara said. " I don't like 
to waken her. But Miss Minchin would be cross if she 
found out. I '11 just wait a few minutes." 

She took a seat on the edge of the table, and sat swing- 


ing her slim, rose-colored legs, and wondering what it 
would be best to do. IVIiss Amelia might come in at any 
moment, and if she did, Becky would be sure to be scolded. 

"But she is so tired," she thought. " She is so tired!" 

A piece of flaming coal ended her perplexity for her that 
very moment. It broke off from a large lump and fell on 
to the fender. Becky started, and opened her eyes with a 
frightened gasp. She did not know she had fallen asleep. 
She had only sat down for one moment and felt the beau- 
tiful glow— and here she found herself staring in wild 
alarm at the wonderful pupil, who sat perched quite near 
her, like a rose-colored fairy, with interested eyes. 

She sprang up and clutched at her cap. She felt it 
danghng over her ear, and tried wildly to put it straight. 
Oh, she had got herself into trouble now with a vengeance ! 
To have impudently fallen asleep on such a young lady's 
chair! She would be turned out of doors without wages. 

She made a sound like a big breathless sob. 

" Oh, miss! Oh, miss! " she stuttered. " I arst yer par- 
don, miss! Oh, I do, miss!" 

Sara jumped down, and came quite close to her. 

" Don't be frightened," she said, quite as if she had been 
speaking to a little girl like herself. " It does n't matter 
the least bit." 

" I did n't go to do it, miss," protested Becky. " It was 
the warm fire— an' me bein' so tired. It— it wasn't im- 
perence ! " 

Sara broke into a friendly little laugh, and put her hand 
on her shoulder. 


" You were tired," she said ; " you could not help it. You 
are not really awake yet." 

How poor Becky stared at her! In fact, she had never 
heard such a nice, friendly sound in any one's voice before. 
She was used to being ordered about and scolded, and hav- 
ing her ears boxed. And this one— in her rose-colored 
dancing afternoon splendor— was looking at her as if she 
were not a culprit at all— as if she had a right to be tired— 
even to fall asleep! The touch of the soft, slim little paw 
on her shoulder was the most amazing thing she had ever 

"Ain't — ain't yer angry, miss?" she gasped. "Ain't 
yer goin' to tell the missus?" 

" No," cried out Sara. " Of course I 'm not." 

The wof ul fright in the coal-smutted face made her sud- 
denly so sorry that she could scarcely bear it. One of her 
queer thoughts rushed into her mind. She put her hand 
against Becky's cheek. 

"Why," she said, "we are just the same— I am only a 
little girl like you. It 's just an accident that I am not 
you, and you are not me ! " 

Becky did not understand in the least. Her mind could 
not grasp such amazing thoughts, and " an accident " 
meant to her a calamity in which some one was run over 
or fell off a ladder and was carried to " the 'orspital." 

" A' accident, miss," she fluttered respectfully. " Is it? " 

" Yes," Sara answered, and she looked at her dreamily 
for a moment. But the next she spoke in a different tone. 
She realized that Becky did not know what she meant. 


"Have you done your work?" she asked. "Dare you 
stay here a few minutes? " 

Becky lost her breath again, 

"Here, miss? Me?" 

Sara ran to the door, opened it, and looked out and lis- 

" No one is anywhere about," she explained. " If your 
bedrooms are finished, perhaps you might stay a tiny while. 
I thought — perhaps — you might like a piece of cake." 

The next ten minutes seemed to Becky like a sort of 
delirium. Sara opened a cupboard, and gave her a thick 
slice of cake. She seemed to rejoice when it was devoured 
in hungry bites. She talked and asked questions, and 
laughed until Becky's fears actually began to calm them- 
selves, and she once or twice gathered boldness enough to 
ask a question or so herself, daring as she felt it to be. 

" Is that—" she ventured, looking longingly at the rose- 
colored frock. And she asked it almost in a whisper. " Is 
that there your best? " 

" It is one of my dancing-frocks," answered Sara. " I 
like it, don't you?" 

For a few seconds Becky was almost speechless with ad- 
miration. Then she said in an awed voice: 

" Onct I see a princess. I was standin' in the street with 
the crowd outside Covin' Garden, watchin' the swells go 
inter the operer. An' there was one every one stared at 
most. They ses to each other, ' That 's the princess.' She 
was a gro wed-up young lady, but she was pink all over— 
gownd an' cloak, an' flowers an' all. I called her to mind 


the minnit I see you, sittin' there on the table, miss. You 
looked like her." 

" I 've often thought," said Sara, in her reflecting voice, 
" that I should like to be a princess ; I wonder what it feels 
like. I believe I will begin pretending I am one." 

Becky stared at her admiringly, and, as before, did not 
understand her in the least. She watched her with a sort of 
adoration. Very soon Sara left her reflections and turned 
to her with a new question. 

" Becky," she said, " were n't you listening to that 

" Yes, miss," confessed Becky, a little alarmed again. 
"I knowed I hadn't orter, but it was that beautiful I— I 
could n't help it." 

" I liked you to listen to it," said Sara. " If you tell 
stories, you like nothing so much as to tell them to people 
who want to listen. I don't know why it is. Would you 
like to hear the rest? " 

Becky lost her breath again. 

"Me hear it?" she cried. "Like as if I was a pupil, 
miss! All about the Prince— and the little white Mer- 
babies swimming about laughing— with stars in their 

Sara nodded. 

" You have n't time to hear it now, I 'm afraid," she said; 
" but if you will tell me just what time you come to do my 
rooms, I will try to be here and tell you a bit of it every day 
until it is finished. It 's a lovely long one— and I 'm always 
putting new bits to it." 


" Then," breathed Becky, devoutly, " I would n't mind 
how heavy the coal-boxes was — or xvhat the cook done to 
me, if — if I might have that to think of." 

" You may," said Sara. " I '11 tell it all to you." 

When Becky went down-stairs, she was not the same 
Becky who had staggered up, loaded down by the weight 
of the coal-scuttle. She had an extra piece of cake in her 
pocket, and she had been fed and warmed, but not only by 
cake and fire. Something else had warmed and fed her, 
and the something else was Sara. 

When she was gone Sara sat on her favorite perch on 
the end of her table. Her feet were on a chair, her elbows 
on her knees, and her chin in her hands. 

" If I was a princess— a real princess," she murmured, 
" I could scatter largess to the populace. But even if I 
am only a pretend princess, I can invent little things to do 
for people. Things like this. She was just as happy as 
if it was largess. I '11 pretend that to do things people like 
is scattering largess. I 've scattered largess.'* 



NOT very long after this a very exciting thing hap- 
pened. Not only Sara, but the entire school, 
found it exciting, and made it the chief subject 
of conversation for weeks after it occurred. In one of his 
letters Captain Crewe told a most interesting story. A 
friend who had been at school with him when he was a boy 
had unexpectedly come to see him in India. He was the 
owner of a large tract of land upon which diamonds had 
been found, and he was engaged in developing the mines. 
If all went as was confidently expected, he would become 
possessed of such wealth as it made one dizzy to think of ; 
and because he was fond of the friend of his school-days, 
he had given him an opportunity to share in this enormous 
fortune by becoming a partner in his scheme. This, at 
least, was what Sara gathered from his letters. It is true 
that any other business scheme, however magnificent, would 
have had but small attraction for her or for the school- 
room; but " diamond-mines " sounded so like the " Arabian 
Nights " that no one could be indifferent. Sara thought 
them enchanting, and painted pictures, for Ermengarde 
and Lottie, of labyrinthine passages in the bowels of the 


earth, where sparkhng stones studded the walls and roofs 
and ceilings, and strange, dark men dug them out with 
heavy picks. Ermengarde delighted in the story, and 
Lottie insisted on its being retold to her every evening. 
Lavinia was very spiteful about it, and told Jessie 
that she did n't believe such things as diamond-mines 

"My mamma has a diamond ring which cost forty 
pounds," she said. "And it is not a big one, either. If 
there were mines full of diamonds, people would be so rich 
it would be ridiculous." 

" Perhaps Sara will be so rich that she will be ridiculous," 
giggled Jessie. 

" She 's ridiculous without being rich," Lavinia sniffed. 

" I believe you hate her," said Jessie. 

" No, I don't," snapped Lavinia. " But I don't beheve 
in mines full of diamonds." 

" Well, people have to get them from somewhere," said 
Jessie. " Lavinia,"— with a new giggle,— "what do you 
think Gertrude says?" 

" I don't know, I 'm sure; and I don't care if it 's some- 
thing more about that everlasting Sara." 

" Well, it is. One of her ' pretends ' is that she is a 
princess. She plays it all the time— even in school. She 
says it makes her learn her lessons better. She wants Er- 
mengarde to be one, too, but Ermengarde says she is too 

" She is too fat," said Lavinia. " And Sara is too thin." 

Naturally, Jessie giggled again. 


" She says it has nothing to do with what you look like, 
or what you have. It has only to do with what you think 
of, and what you do/' 

" I suppose she thinks she could be a princess if she was 
a beggar," said Lavinia. " Let us begin to call her Your 
Royal Highness." 

Lessons for the day were over, and they were sitting 
before the school-room fire, enjoying the time they liked 
best. It was the time when Miss Minchin and Miss Amelia 
were taking their tea in the sitting-room sacred to them- 
selves. At this hour a great deal of talking was done, and 
a great many secrets changed hands, particularly if the 
younger pupils behaved themselves well, and did not 
squabble or run about noisily, which it must be confessed 
they usually did. When they made an uproar the older 
girls usually interfered with scoldings and shakes. They 
were expected to keep order, and there was danger that 
if they did not. Miss Minchin or Miss Ameha would 
appear and put an end to festivities. Even as Lavinia 
spoke the door opened and Sara entered with Lottie, 
whose habit was to trot everywhere after her like a lit- 
tle dog. 

"There she is, with that horrid child!" exclaimed La- 
vinia, in a whisper. " If she 's so fond of her, why does n't 
she keep her in her own room? She will begin howling 
about something in five minutes." 

It happened that Lottie had been seized with a sudden 
desire to play in the school-room, and had begged her 
adopted parent to come with her. She joined a group of 


little ones who were playing in a corner. Sara curled her- 
self up in the window-seat, opened a book, and began to 
read. It was a book about the French Revolution, and 
she was soon lost in a harrowing picture of the prisoners 
in the Bastille — men who had spent so many years in 
dungeons that when they were dragged out by those 
who rescued them, their long, gray hair and beards 
almost hid their faces, and they had forgotten that an 
outside world existed at all, and were like beings in a 

She was so far away from the school-room that it was 
not agreeable to be dragged back suddenly by a howl 
from Lottie. Never did she find anything so difficult as 
to keep herself from losing her temper when she was sud- 
denly disturbed while absorbed in a book. People who 
are fond of books know the feehng of irritation which 
sweeps over them at such a moment. The temptation 
to be unreasonable and snappish is one not easy to 

" It makes me feel as if some one had hit me," Sara had 
told Ermengarde once in confidence. " And as if I want 
to hit back. I have to remember things quickly to keep 
from saying something ill-tempered." 

She had to remember things quickly when she laid her 
book on the window-seat and jumped down from her 
comfortable corner. 

Lottie had been sliding across the school-room floor, and, 
having first irritated Lavinia and Jessie by making a noise, 
had ended by falling down and hurting her fat knee. She 


was screaming and dancing up and down in the midst of a 
group of friends and enemies, who were alternately coax- 
ing and scolding her. 

" Stop this minute, you cry-baby! Stop this minute!" 
Lavinia commanded. 

" I 'm not a cry-baby— I 'm not ! " wailed Lottie. " Sara, 

" If she does n't stop. Miss Minchin will hear her," cried 
Jessie. " Lottie darling, I 'U give you a penny! " 

"I don't want your penny," sobbed Lottie; and she 
looked down at the fat knee, and, seeing a drop of blood on 
it, burst forth again. 

Sara flew across the room and, kneeling down, put her 
arms round her. 

" Now, Lottie," she said. " Now, Lottie, you promised 

" She said I was a cry-baby," wept Lottie. 

Sara patted her, but spoke in the steady voice Lottie 

" But if you cry, you will be one, Lottie pet. You prom- 

Lottie remembered that she had promised, but she pre- 
ferred to lift up her voice. 

" I have n't any mamma," she proclaimed. " I haven't 
—a bit— of mamma." 

" Yes, you have," said Sara, cheerfully. " Have you for- 
gotten? Don't you know that Sara is your mamma? 
Don't you want Sara for your mamma? " 

Lottie cuddled up to her with a consoled sniff. 


*' Come and sit in the window-seat with me," Sara went 
on, " and I '11 whisper a story to you." 

"Will you?" whimpered Lottie. "Will you— tell me 
—about the diamond-mines?" 

"The diamond-mines?" broke out Lavinia. "Nasty, 
little spoiled thing, I should like to slap her!" 

Sara got up quickly on her feet. It must be remembered 
that she had been very deeply absorbed in the book about 
the Bastille, and she had had to recall several things rapidly 
when she realized that she must go and take care of her 
adopted child. She was not an angel, and she was not fond 
of Lavinia. 

" Well," she said, with some fire, " I should like to slap 
you,— hut 1 don't want to slap you!" restraining herself. 
"At least I both want to slap you— and I should like to 
slap you,— but I wont slap you. We are not little gutter 
children. We are both old enough to know better." 

Here was Lavinia's opportunit}^ 

"Ah, yes, your royal highness," she said. "We are 
princesses, I believe. At least one of us is. The school 
ought to be very fashionable now JNIiss Minchin has a 
princess for a pupil." 

Sara started toward her. She looked as if she were going 
to box her ears. Perhaps she was. Her trick of pretend- 
ing things was the joy of her life. She never spoke of it 
to girls she was not fond of. Her new " pretend " about 
being a princess was very near to her heart, and she was 
shy and sensitive about it. She had meant it to be rather a 
secret, and here was Lavinia deriding it before nearly all 


the school. She felt the blood rush up into her face and 
tingle in her ears. She only just saved herself. If you 
were a princess, you did not fly into rages. Her hand 
dropped, and she stood quite still a moment. When she 
spoke it was in a quiet, steady voice ; she held her head up, 
and everybody listened to her. 

" It 's true," she said. " Sometimes I do pretend I am a 
princess. I pretend I am a princess, so that I can try and 
behave like one." 

Lavinia could not think of exactly the right thing to say. 
Several times she had found that she could not think of a 
satisfactory reply when she was dealing with Sara. The 
reason of this was that, somehow, the rest always seemed to 
be vaguely in sympathy with her opponent. She saw now 
that they were pricking up their ears interestedly. The 
truth was, they liked princesses, and they all hoped they 
might hear something more definite about this one, and 
drew nearer Sara accordingly. 

Lavinia could only invent one remark, and it fell rather 

"Dear me!" she said; "I hope, when 3^ou ascend the 
throne, you won't forget us." 

" I won't," said Sara, and she did not utter another word, 
but stood quite still, and stared at her steadily as she saw 
her take Jessie's arm and turn away. 

After this, the girls who were jealous of her used to 
speak of her as " Princess Sara " whenever they wished to 
be particularly disdainful, and those who were fond of her 
gave her the name among themselves as a term of aff ec- 


tlon. No one called her " princess " instead of " Sara," but 
her adorers were much pleased with the picturesqueness 
and grandeur of the title, and Miss Minchin, hearing of it, 
mentioned it more than once to visiting parents, feeling 
that it rather suggested a sort of royal boarding-school. 

To Becky it seemed the most appropriate thing in the 
world. The acquaintance begun on the foggy afternoon 
when she had jumped up terrified from her sleep in the 
comfortable chair, had ripened and grown, though it must 
be confessed that Miss Minchin and Miss Amelia knew 
very little about it. They were aware that Sara was 
" kind " to the scullery-maid, but they knew nothing of 
certain delightful moments snatched perilously when, the 
up-stairs rooms being set in order with lightning rapidity, 
Sara's sitting-room was reached, and the heavy coal-box 
set down with a sigh of joy. At such times stories were 
told by instalments, things of a satisfying nature were 
either produced and eaten or hastily tucked into pockets to 
be disposed of at night, when Becky went up-stairs to her 
attic to bed. 

" But I has to eat 'em careful, miss," she said once; " 'cos 
if I leaves crumbs the rats come out to get 'em." 

"Rats!" exclaimed Sara, in horro*-. "Are there rats 

" Lots of 'em, miss," Becky answered in quite a matter- 
of-fact manner. " There mostly is rats an' mice in attics. 
You gets used to the noise they makes scuttling about. 
I 've got so I don't mind 'em s' long as they don't run over 
my piller." 


"Ugh! "said Sara. 

"You gets used to anythin' after a bit," said Becky. 
" You have to, miss, if you 're born a scullery-maid. I 'd 
rather have rats than cockroaches." 

" So would I," said Sara; " I suppose you might make 
friends with a rat in time, but I don't believe I should like 
to make friends with a cockroach." 

Sometimes Becky did not dare to spend more than a few 
minutes in the bright, warm room, and when this was the 
case perhaps only a few words could be exchanged, and a 
small purchase slipped into the old-fashioned pocket Becky 
carried under her dress skirt, tied round her waist with a 
band of tape. The search for and discovery of satisfying 
things to eat which could be packed into small compass, 
added a new interest to Sara's existence. When she drove 
or walked out, she used to look into shop windows eagerly. 
The first time it occurred to her to bring home two or three 
little meat-pies, she felt that she had hit upon a discovery. 
When she exhibited them, Becky's eyes quite sparkled. 

"Oh, miss!" she murmured. "Them will be nice an' 
fillin'. It 's fillin'ness that 's best. Sponge-cake 's a 
'evingly thing, but it melts away like— if you understand, 
miss. These '11 just stay in yer stummick." 

" Well," hesitated Sara, " I don't think it would be good 
if they stayed always, but I do believe they will be satis- 

They were satisfying,— and so were beef sandwiches, 
bought at a cook-shop,— and so were rolls and Bologna 
sausage. In time, Becky began to lose her hungry, tired 


feeling, and the coal-box did not seem so untjearably 

However heavy it wajs, and whatsoever the temper of the 
cook, and the hardness of the work heaped upon her shoul- 
ders, she had always the chance of the afternoon to look 
forward to — the chance that Miss Sara would be able to be 
in her sitting-room. In fact, the mere seeing of Miss Sara 
would have been enough without meat-pies. If there was 
time only for a few words, they were always friendly, 
merry words that put heart into one ; and if there was time 
for more, then there was an instalment of a story to be told, 
or some other thing one remembered afterward and some- 
times lay awake in one's bed in the attic to think over. 
Sara— who was only doing what she unconsciously liked 
better than anything else, Nature having made her for a 
giver— had not the least idea what she meant to poor 
Becky, and how wonderful a benefactor she seemed. If 
Nature has made you for a giver, your hands are born 
open, and so is your heart; and though there may be 
times when your hands are empty, your heart is always 
full, and you can give things out of that— warm things, 
kind things, sweet things,— help and comfort and laughter, 
—and sometimes gay, kind laughter is the best help of all. 

Becky had scarcely known what laughter was through 
all her poor, little hard-driven life. Sara made her laugh, 
and laughed with her; and, though neither of them 
quite knew it, the laughter was as " fillin' " as the meat- 

A few weeks before Sara's eleventh birthday a letter 


came to her from her father, which did not seem to be writ- 
ten in such boyish high spirits as usual. He was not very- 
well, and was evidently overweighted by the business con- 
nected with the diamond-mines. 

" You see, little Sara," he wrote, " your daddy is not a 
business man at all, and figures and documents bother him. 
He does not really understand them, and all this seems so 
enormous. Perhaps, if I was not feverish I should not be 
awake, tossing about, one half of the night and spend the 
other half in troublesome dreams. If my little missus were 
here, I dare say she would give me some solemn, good 
advice. You would, would n't you, little missus?" 

One of his many jokes had been to call her his "little 
missus" because she had such an old-fashioned air. 

He had made wonderful preparations for her birthday. 
Among other things, a new doll had been ordered in Paris, 
and her wardrobe was to be, indeed, a marvel of splendid 
perfection. When she had replied to the letter asking her 
if the doll would be an acceptable present, Sara had been 
very quaint. 

"I am getting very old," she wrote; "you see, I shall 
never live to have another doll given me. This will be my 
last doll. There is something solemn about it. If I could 
write poetry, I am sure a poem about ' A Last Doll ' would 
be very nice. But I cannot write poetry. I have tried, and 
it made me laugh. It did not sound like Watts or Cole- 
ridge or Shakespeare at all. No one could ever take 
Emily's place, but I should respect the Last Doll very 
much ; and I am sure the school would love it. They all like 


dolls, though some of the big ones— the almost fifteen ones 
— pretend they are too grown up." 

Captain Crewe had a splitting headache when he read 
this letter in his bungalow in India. The table before him 
was heaped with papers and letters which were alarming 
him and filling him with anxious dread, but he laughed as 
he had not laughed for weeks. 

" Oh," he said, " she 's better fun every year she lives. 
God grant this business may right itself and leave me free 
to i-un home and see her. What would n't I give to have 
her little arms round my neck this minute ! What would nt 
I give!" 

The birthday was to be celebrated by great festivities. 
The school-room was to be decorated, and there was to be a 
party. The boxes containing the presents were to be 
opened with great ceremony, and there was to be a glitter- 
ing feast spread in Miss Minchin's sacred room. When 
the day arrived the M'hole house was in a whirl of excite- 
ment. How the morning passed nobody quite knew, be- 
cause there seemed such preparations to be made. The 
school-room was being decked with garlands of holly; the 
desks had been moved away, and red covers had been put 
on the forms which were arrayed round the room against 
the wall. 

When Sara went into her sitting-room in the morning, 
she found on the table a small, dumpy package, tied up 
in a piece of brown paper. She knew it was a present, and 
she thought she could guess whom it came from. She 
opened it quite tenderly. It was a square pincushion, made 


of not quite clean red flannel, and black pins had been stuck 
carefully into it to form the words, " Menny hapy returns." 

"Oh!" cried Sara, with a warm feeling in her heart. 
" What pains she has taken! I like it so, it— it makes me 
feel sorrowful." 

But the next moment she was mystified. On the under 
side of the pincushion was secured a card, bearing in neat 
letters the name " Miss Amelia Minchin." 

Sara turned it over and over. 

" Miss Amelia ! " she said to herself. " How can it be ! " 

And just at that very moment she heard the door being 
cautiously pushed open and saw Becky peeping round it. 

There was an affectionate, happy grin on her face, and 
she shuffled forward and stood nervously pulling at her 

" Do yer hke it, Miss Sara? " she said. " Do yer? " 

" Like it? " cried Sara. " You darling Becky, you made 
it all yourself." 

Becky gave a hysteric but joyful sniff, and her eyes 
looked quite moist with delight. 

"It ain't nothin' but flannin, an' the flannin ain't new; 
but I wanted to give yer somethin' an' I made it of nights. 
I knew yer could pretend it was satin with diamond pins 
in. I tried to when I was makin' it. The card, miss," 
rather doubtfully ; " 't war n't wrong of me to pick it up out 
o' the dust-bin, was it? Miss 'Meliar had throwed it away. 
I had n't no card o' my own, an' I knowed it would n't be 
a proper presink if I did n't pin a card on— so I pinned 
Miss 'Meliar's." 


Sara flew at her and hugged her. She could not have 
told herself or any one else why there was a lump in her 

"Oh, Becky!" she cried out, with a queer little laugh. 
" I love you, Becky,— I do, I do! " 

" Oh, miss ! " breathed Becky. " Thank yer, miss, kindly ; 
It ain't good enough for that. The— the flannin was n't 



WHEN Sara entered the holly-hung school-room 
in the afternoon, she did so as the head of a 
sort of procession. Miss Minchin, in her 
grandest silk dress, led her by the hand. A man-servant 
followed, carrying the box containing the Last Doll, a 
housemaid carried a second box, and Becky brought up the 
rear, carrying a third and wearing a clean apron and a new 
cap. Sara would have much preferred to enter in the usual 
way, but Miss Minchin had sent for her, and, after an in- 
terview in her private sitting-room, had expressed her 

" This is not an ordinary occasion," she said. " I do not 
desire that it should be treated as one." 

So Sara was led grandly in and felt shy when, on 
her entry, the big girls stared at her and touched each 
other's elbows, and the little ones began to squirm joyously 
in their seats. 

" Silence, young ladies! " said Miss Minchin, at the mur- 
mur which arose. "James, place the box on the table and 
remove the lid. Emma, put yours upon a chair. Becky! " 
suddenly and severely. 



Becky had quite forgotten herself in her excitement, and 
was grinning at Lottie, who was wriggHng with rapturous 
expectation. She almost dropped her box, the disapprov- 
ing voice so startled her, and her frightened, bobbing cour- 
tesy of apology was so funny that Lavinia and Jessie 

" It is not your place to look at the young ladies," said 
Miss Minchin. " You forget yourself. Put your box 

Becky obeyed with alarmed haste and hastily backed to- 
ward the door. 

"You may leave us," Miss Minchin announced to the 
servants with a wave of her hand. 

Becky stepped aside respectfully to allow the superior 
servants to pass out first. She could not help casting a long- 
ing glance at the box on the table. Something made of 
blue satin was peeping from between the folds of tissue- 

" If you please. Miss Minchin," said Sara, suddenly, 
"may n't Becky stay?" 

It was a bold thing to do. Miss Minchin was betrayed 
into something like a slight jump. Then she put her eye- 
glass up, and gazed at her show pupil disturbedly. 

"Becky!" she exclaimed. "My dearest Sara!" 

Sara advanced a step toward her. 

" I want her because I know she will like to see the pres- 
ents," she explained. " She is a little girl, too, you know." 

Miss Minchin was scandalized. She glanced from one 
figure to the other. 


" My dear Sara," she said, " Becky is the scullery-maid. 
Scullery-maids— er— are not little girls." 

It really had not occurred to her to think of them in that 
light. Scullery-maids were machines who carried coal- 
scuttles and made fires. 

" But Becky is," said Sara. " And I know she would 
enjoy herself. Please let her stay— because it is my birth- 

Miss Minchin replied with much dignity: 

" As you ask it as a birthday favor— she may stay. Re- 
becca, thank Miss Sara for her great kindness." 

Becky had been backing into the corner, twisting the 
hem of her apron in delighted suspense. She came for- 
ward, bobbing courtesies, but between Sara's eyes and her 
own there passed a gleam of friendly understanding, while 
her words tumbled over each other. 

"Oh, if you please, miss! I 'm that grateful, miss! I 
did want to see the doll, miss, that I did. Thank you, 
miss. And thank you, ma'am,"— turning and making an 
alarmed bob to Miss Minchin, — "for letting me take the 

Miss Minchin waved her hand again— this time it was 
in the direction of the corner near the door. 

" Go and stand there," she commanded. " Not too near 
the young ladies." 

Becky went to her place, grinning. She did not care 
where she was sent, so that she might have the luck of 
being inside the room, instead of being down-stairs in the 
scullery, while these delights were going on. She did not 


even mind when Miss Minchin cleared her throat omi- 
nously and spoke again. 

" Now, young ladies, I have a few words to say to you," 
she announced. 

" She 's going to make a speech," whispered one of the 
girls. " I wish it was over." 

Sara felt rather uncomfortable. As this was her party, 
it was probable that the speech was about her. It is not 
agreeable to stand in a school-room and have a speech made 
about you. 

"You are aware, young ladies," the speech began,— for 
it was a speech,— " that dear Sara is eleven years old to- 

"Dear Sara!" murmured Lavinia. 

" Several of you here have also been eleven years old, but 
Sara's birthdays are rather different from other little girls' 
birthdays. When she is older she will be heiress to a large 
fortune, which it will be her duty to spend in a meritorious 

" The diamond-mines," giggled Jessie, in a whisper. 

Sara did not hear her; but as she stood with her green- 
gray eyes fixed steadily on Miss Minchin, she felt herself 
growing rather hot. When Miss Minchin talked about 
money, she felt somehow that she always hated her — and, 
of course, it was disrespectful to hate grown-up people. 

"When her dear papa, Captain Crewe, brought her 
from India and gave her into my care," the speech pro- 
ceeded, "he said to me, in a jesting way, 'I am afraid 
she will be very rich. Miss Minchin.' My reply was, ' Her 


education at my seminary, Captain Crewe, shall be such as 
will adorn the largest fortune.' Sara has become my most 
accomplished pupil. Her French and her dancing are a 
credit to the seminary. Her manners — which have caused 
you to call her Princess Sara— are perfect. Her amiability 
she exhibits by giving you this afternoon's party. I hope 
you appreciate her generosity. I wish you to express your 
appreciation of it by saying aloud all together, ' Thank 
you, Sara!'" 

The entire school-room rose to its feet as it had done the 
morning Sara remembered so well. 

"Thank you, Sara!" it said, and it must be confessed that 
Lottie jumped up and down. Sara looked rather shy for a 
moment. She made a courtesy — and it was a very nice one. 

" Thank you," she said, " for coming to my party." 

" Very pretty, indeed, Sara," approved Miss Minchin. 
" That is what a real princess does when the populace ap- 
plauds her. Lavinia,"— scathingly,— " the sound you just 
made was extremely like a snort. If you are jealous of 
your fellow-pupil, I beg you will express your feelings in 
some more ladylike manner. Now I will leave you to en- 
joy yourselves." 

The instant she had swept out of the room the spell 
her presence always had upon them was broken. The 
door had scarcely closed before every seat was empty. The 
little girls jumped or tumbled out of theirs; the older ones 
wasted no time in deserting theirs. There was a rush to- 
ward the boxes. Sara had bent over one of them with a 
delighted face. 


The children crowded clamoring around her. 


"These are books, I know," she said. 

The Httle children broke into a rueful murmur, and 
Ermengarde looked aghast. 

"Does your papa send you books for a birthday pres- 
ent? " she exclaimed. " Why, he 's as bad as mine. Don't 
open them, Sara." 

" I like them," Sara laughed, but she turned to the big- 
gest box. When she took out the Last Doll it was so 
magnificent that the children uttered delighted groans of 
joy, and actually drew back to gaze at it in breathless 

" She is almost as big as Lottie," some one gasped. 

Lottie clapped her hands and danced about, giggling. 

" She 's dressed for the theatre," said Lavinia. " Her 
cloak is lined with ermine." 

"Oh!" cried Ermengarde, darting forward, "she has 
an opera-glass in her hand— a blue-and-gold one." 

" Here is her trunk," said Sara. " Let us open it and 
look at her things." 

She sat down upon the floor and turned the key. The 
children crowded clamoring around her, as she lifted tray 
after tray and revealed their contents. Never had the 
school-room been in such an uproar. There were lace col- 
lars and silk stockings and handkerchiefs; there was a 
jewel-case containing a necklace and a tiara which looked 
quite as if they were made of real diamonds; there was a 
long sealskin and muff; there were ball dresses and walking 
dresses and visiting dresses; there were hats and tea-gowr.s 
and fans. Even Lavinia and Jessie forgot that they were 


too elderly to care for dolls, and uttered exclamations of 
delight and caught up things to look at them. 

" Suppose," Sara said, as she stood by the table, putting 
a large, black -velvet hat on the impassively smiling owner 
of all these splendors — "suppose she understands human 
talk and feels proud of being admired." 

" You are always supposing things," said Lavinia, and 
her air was very superior. 

" I know I am," answered Sara, undisturbedly. *' I like 
it. There is nothing so nice as supposing. It 's almost like 
being a fairy. If you suppose anything hard enough it 
seems as if it were real." 

" It 's all very well to suppose things if you have every- 
thing," said Lavinia. " Could you suppose and pretend if 
you were a beggar and lived in a garret?" 

Sara stopped arranging the Last Doll's ostrich plumes, 
and looked thoughtful. 

" I believe I could," she said. " If one was a beggar, one 
would have to suppose and pretend all the time. But it 
might n't be easy." 

She often thought afterward how strange it was that 
just as she had finished saying this— just at that very mo- 
ment—Miss Amelia came into the room. 

" Sara," she said, " your papa's solicitor, Mr. Barrow, 
has called to see Miss Minchin, and, as she must talk to him 
alone and the refreshments are laid in her parlor, you had 
all better come and have your feast now, so that my sister 
can have her interview here in the school-room." 

Refreshments were not likely to be disdained at any 


hour, and many pairs of eyes gleamed. Miss Amelia ar- 
ranged the procession into decorum, and then, with Sara 
at her side heading it, she led it away, leaving the Last Doll 
sitting upon a chair with the glories of her wardrobe 
scattered about her; dresses and coats hung upon chair 
backs, piles of lace-frilled petticoats lying upon their 

Becky, who was not expected to partake of refresh- 
ments, had the indiscretion to linger a moment to look at 
these beauties — it really was an indiscretion. 

" Go back to your work, Becky," Miss Amelia had said; 
but she had stopped to reverently pick up first a muff and 
then a coat, and while she stood looking at them adoringly, 
she heard Miss Minchin upon the threshold, and, being 
smitten with terror at the thought of being accused of tak- 
ing liberties, she rashly darted under the table, which hid 
her by its table-cloth. 

Miss Minchin came into the room, accompanied by a 
sharp-featured, dry little gentleman, who looked rather dis- 
turbed. Miss Minchin herself also looked rather disturbed, 
it must be admitted, and she gazed at the dry little gentle- 
man with an irritated and puzzled expression. 

She sat down with stiff dignity, and waved him to a 

" Pray, be seated, Mr. Barrow," she said. 

Mr. Barrow did not sit down at once. His attention 
seemed attracted by the Last Doll and the things which 
surrounded her. He settled his eye-glasses and looked at 
them in nervous disapproval. The Last Doll herself did 


not seem to mind this in the least. She merely sat upright 
and returned his gaze indifferently. 

" A hundred pounds," Mr. Barrow remarked succinctly. 
" All expensive material, and made at a Parisian modiste's. 
He spent money lavishly enough, that young man." 

Miss Minchin felt offended. This seemed to be a dis- 
paragement of her best patron and was a liberty. 

Even solicitors had no right to take liberties. 

" I beg your pardon, Mr. Barrow," she said stiffly. " I 
do not understand." 

" Birthday presents," said Mr. Barrow in the same criti- 
cal manner, "to a child eleven years old! Mad extrava- 
gance, I call it." 

Miss Minchin drew herself up still more rigidly. 

" Captain Crewe is a man of fortune," she said. " The 
diamond-mines alone — " 

Mr. Barrow wheeled round upon her. 

"Diamond-mines!" he broke out. "There are none! 
Never were!" 

Miss Minchin actually got up from her chair. 

"What!" she cried. "What do you mean?" 

" At any rate," answered Mr. Barrow, quite snappishly, 
" it would have been much better if there never had been 

"Any diamond-mines?" ejaculated Miss Minchin, 
catching at the back of a chair and feeling as if a splendid 
dream was fading away from her. 

"Diamond-mines spell ruin oftener than they spell 
wealth," said Mr. Barrow. " When a man is in the hands 


of a very dear friend and is not a business man himself, he 
had better steer clear of the dear friend's diamond-mines, 
or gold-mines, or any other kind of mines dear friends want 
his money to put into. The late Captain Crewe—" 

Here Miss Minchin stopped him with a gasp. 

"The late Captain Crewe!" she cried out; "the late! 
You don't come to tell me that Captain Crewe is—" 

" He 's dead, ma'am," Mr. Barrow answered with jerky 
brusqueness. " Died of jungle fever and business troubles 
combined. The jungle fever might not have killed him if 
he had not been driven mad by the business troubles, and 
the business troubles might not have put an end to him if 
the jungle fever had not assisted. Captain Crewe is 

Miss Minchin dropped into her chair again. The words 
he had spoken filled her with alarm. 

"What were his business troubles?" she said. "What 
were they?" 

"Diamond-mines," answered Mr. Barrow, "and dear 
friends— and ruin." 

Miss Minchin lost her breath. 

"Ruin!" she gasped out. 

"Lost every penny. That young man had too much 
money. The dear friend was mad on the subject of the 
diamond-mine. He put all his own money into it, and all 
Captain Crewe's. Then the dear friend ran away— Cap- 
tain Crewe was already stricken with fever when the news 
came. The shock was too much for him. He died deliri- 
ous, raving about his little girl— and did n't leave a penny." 


Now Miss Minchin understood, and never had she re- 
ceived such a blow in her hfe. Her show pupil, her show 
patron, swept away from the Select Seminary at one blow. 
She felt as if she had been outraged and robbed, and that 
Captain Crewe and Sara and Mr. Barrow were equally to 

" Do you mean to tell me," she cried out, " that he left 
nothing! That Sara will have no fortune ! That the child 
is a beggar! That she is left on my hands a little pauper 
instead of an heiress?" 

Mr. Barrow was a shrewd business man, and felt it as 
well to make his own freedom from responsibility quite 
clear without any delay. 

" She is certainly left a beggar," he replied. " And she 
is certainly left on your hands, ma'am,— as she has n't a 
relation in the world that we know of." 

Miss Minchin started forward. She looked as if she was 
going to open the door and rush out of the room to stop 
the festivities going on joyfully and rather noisily that 
moment over the refreshments. 

" It is monstrous! " she said. " She 's in my sitting-room 
at this moment, dressed in silk gauze and lace petticoats, 
giving a party at my expense." 

" She 's giving it at your expense, madam, if she 's giv- 
ing it," said Mr. Barrow, calmly. " Barrow & Skipworth 
are not responsible for anything. There never was a 
cleaner sweep made of a man's fortune. Captain Crewe 
died without paying our last bill— and it was a big one." 

Miss Minchin turned back from the door in increased in- 


dignation. This was worse than any one could have 
dreamed of its being. 

" That is what has happened to me! " she cried. " I was 
always so sure of his payments that I went to all sorts of 
ridiculous expenses for the child. I paid the bills for that 
ridiculous doll and her ridiculous fantastic wardrobe. The 
child was to have anything she wanted. She has a carriage 
and a pony and a maid, and I 've paid for all of them since 
the last cheque came." 

Mr. Barrow evidently did not intend to remain to listen 
to the story of Miss Minchin's grievances after he had 
made the position of his firm clear and related the mere 
dry facts. He did not feel any particular sympathy for 
irate keepers of boarding-schools, 

" You had better not pay for anything more, ma'am," 
he remarked, "unless you want to make presents to the 
young lady. No one will remember you. She hasn't a 
brass farthing to call her own." 

"But what am I to do?" demanded Miss Minchin, as 
if she felt it entirely his duty to make the matter right. 
"What am I to do?" 

" There is n't anything to do," said Mr. Barrow, folding 
up his eye-glasses and slipping them into his pocket. 
" Captain Crewe is dead. The child is left a pauper. No- 
body is responsible for her but you." 

" I am not responsible for her, and I refuse to be made 

Miss Minchin became quite white with rage. 

Mr, Barrow turned to go. 


" I have nothing to do with that, madam," he said un- 
interestedly. "Barrow & Skipworth are not responsible. 
Very sorry the thing has happened, of course." 

" If you think she is to be foisted off on me, you are 
greatly mistaken," Miss Minchin gasped. " I have been 
robbed and cheated; I will turn her into the street!" 

If she had not been so furious, she would have been too 
discreet to say quite so much. She saw herself burdened 
with an extravagantly brought-up child whom she had al- 
ways resented, and she lost all self-control. 

Mr. Barrow undisturbedly moved toward the door. 

"I would n't do that, madam," he commented; "it 
would n't look well. Unpleasant story to get about in con- 
nection with the establishment. Pupil bundled out pen- 
niless and without friends." 

He was a clever business man, and he knew what he was 
saying. He also knew that Miss Minchin was a business 
woman, and would be shrewd enough to see the truth. She 
could not afford to do a thing which would make people 
speak of her as cruel and hard-hearted. 

"Better keep her and make use of her," he added. 
" She 's a clever child, I believe. You can get a good deal 
out of her as she grows older." 

" I will get a good deal out of her before she grows 
older! " exclaimed Miss ^linchin. 

" I am sure you will, ma'am," said Mr. Barrow, with a 
little sinister smile. " I am sure you will. Good morn- 

He bowed himself out and closed the door, and it must 


be confessed that Miss Minchin stood for a few moments 
and glared at it. What he had said was quite true. She 
knew it. She had absolutely no redress. Her show pupil 
had melted into nothingness, leaving only a friendless, beg- 
gared little girl. Such money as she herself had advanced 
was lost and could not be regained. 

And as she stood there breathless under her sense of 
injury, there fell upon her ears a burst of gay voices from 
her own sacred room, which had actually been given up to 
the feast. She could at least stop this. 

But as she started toward the door it was opened by 
Miss Amelia, who, when she caught sight of the changed, 
angry face, fell back a step in alarm. 

"What is the matter, sister?" she ejaculated. 

Miss Minchin's voice was almost fierce when she an- 
swered : 

"Where is Sara Crewe?" 

Miss Amelia was bewildered. 

"Sara!" she stammered. "Why, she 's with the chil- 
dren in your room, of course." 

"Has she a black frock in her sumptuous wardrobe?" 
—in bitter irony. 

" A black frock? " Miss Amelia stammered again. " A 
black one ? " 

" She has frocks of every other color. Has she a black 

Miss Amelia began to turn pale. 

"No— ye-es!" she said. "But it is too short for her. 
She has only the old black velvet, and she has outgrown it." 


" Go and tell her to take off that preposterous pink silk 
gauze, and put the black one on, whether it is too short or 
not. She has done with fineiy!" 

Then Miss Amelia began to wring her fat hands and cry. 

" Oh, sister! " she sniiFed. " OH, sister! What can have 

Miss Minchin wasted no words. 

" Captain Crewe is dead," she said. " He has died with- 
out a penny. That spoiled, pampered, fanciful child is left 
a pauper on my hands." 

Miss Amelia sat down quite heavily in the nearest chair. 

" Hundreds of pounds have I spent on nonsense for her. 
And I shall never see a penny of it. Put a stop to this 
ridiculous party of hers. Go and make her change her 
frock at once." 

"I?" panted Miss Amelia. "M-must I go and tell 
her now?" 

" This moment! " was the fierce answer. " Don't sit star- 
ing like a goose. Go!" 

Poor Miss Amelia was accustomed to being called a 
goose. She knew, in fact, that she was rather a goose, and 
that it was left to geese to do a great many disagreeable 
things. It was a somewhat embarrassing thing to go into 
the midst of a room full of delighted children, and tell the 
giver of the feast that she had suddenly been transformed 
into a little beggar, and must go up-stairs and put on an 
old black frock which was too small for her. But the thing 
must be done. This was evidently not the time when ques- 
tions might be asked. 


She rubbed her eyes with her handkerchief until they 
looked quite red. After which she got up and went out of 
the room, without venturing to say another word. When 
her older sister looked and spoke as she had done just now, 
the wisest course to pursue was to obey orders without any 
comment. Miss Minchin walked across the room. She 
spoke to herself aloud without knowing that she was doing 
it. During the last year the story of the diamond-mines 
had suggested all sorts of possibilities to her. Even pro- 
prietors of seminaries might make fortunes in stocks, with 
the aid of owners of mines. And now, instead of looking 
forward to gains, she was left to look back upon losses. 

" The Princess Sara, indeed! " she said. " The child has 
been pampered as if she were a queen." 

She was sweeping angrily past the corner table as she 
said it, and the next moment she started at the sound of 
a loud, sobbing sniff which issued from under the cover. 

"What is that! " she exclaimed angrily. The loud, sob- 
bing sniff was heard again, and she stooped and raised the 
hanging folds of the table-cover. 

"How dare you!" she cried out. "How dare you! 
Come out immediately ! " 

It was poor Becky who crawled out, and her cap w^as 
knocked on one side, and her face was red with repressed 

" If you please, 'm— it 's me, mum," she explained. " I 
know I had n't ought to. But I was lookin' at the doll, 
mum— an' I was frightened when you come in— an' 
slipped under the table." 


" You have been there all the time, listening," said Miss 

"No, mum," Becky protested, bobbing courtesies. 
"Not listenin'— I thought I could slip out without your 
noticin', but I could n't an' I had to stay. But I did n't 
listen, mum— I would n't for nothin'. But I could n't help 

Suddenly it seemed almost as if she lost all fear of the 
awful lady before her. She burst into fresh tears. 

" Oh, please, 'm," she said; " I dare say you '11 give me 
warnin', mum,— but I 'm so sorry for poor Miss Sara— 
I 'm so sorry!" 

" Leave the room! " ordered Miss Minchin. 

Becky courtesied again, the tears openly streaming 
down her cheeks. 

"Yes, 'm; I will, 'm," she said, trembling; "but oh, I just 
wanted to arst you: Miss Sara— she 's been such a rich 
young lady, an' she 's been waited on, 'and and foot; an' 
what will she do now, mum, without no maid? If — if, oh 
please, would you let me wait on her after I 've done my 
pots an' kettles? I 'd do 'em that quick— if you 'd let me 
wait on her now she 's poor. Oh,"— breaking out afresh,— 
" poor little Miss Sara, mum — that was called a princess." 

Somehow, she made INIiss Minchin feel more angry than 
ever. That the very scullery-maid should range herself on 
the side of this child— whom she realized more fully than 
ever that she had never liked— was too much. She actually 
stamped her foot. 

" No — certainly not," she said. " She will wait on her- 


self, and on other people, too. Leave the room this instant, 
or you '11 leave your place." 

Becky threw her apron over her head and fled. She ran 
out of the room and down the steps into the scullery, and 
there she sat down among her pots and kettles, and wept as 
if her heart would break. 

" It 's exactly like the ones in the stories," she wailed. 
" Them pore princess ones that was drove into the world." 

Miss Minchin had never looked quite so still and hard 
as she did when Sara came to her, a few hours later, in re- 
sponse to a message she had sent her. 

Even by that .time it seemed to Sara as if the birthday 
party had either been a dream or a thing which had hap- 
pened years ago, and had happened in the life of quite an- 
other little girl. 

Every sign of the festivities had been swept away; the 
holly had been removed from the school-room walls, and the 
forms and desks put back into their places. Miss Min- 
chin's sitting-room looked as it always did — all traces of 
the feast were gone, and Miss Minchin had resumed her 
usual dress. The pupils had been ordered to lay aside their 
party frocks ; and this having been done, they had returned 
to the school-room and huddled together in groups, whis- 
pering and talking excitedly. 

" Tell Sara to come to my room," Miss Minchin had said 
to her sister. " And explain to her clearly that I will have 
no crying or unpleasant scenes." 

" Sister," replied Miss Amelia, " she is the strangest 


child I ever saw. She has actually made no fuss at all. 
You remember she made none when Captain Crewe went 
back to India. When I told her what had happened, she 
just stood quite still and looked at me without making a 
sound. Her eyes seemed to get bigger and bigger, and she 
went quite pale. When I had finished, she still stood star- 
ing for a few seconds, and then her chin began to shake, and 
she turned round and ran out of the room and up-stairs. 
Several of the other children began to cry, but she did not 
seem to hear them or to be alive to anything but just what 
I was saying. It made me feel quite queer not to be an- 
swered; and when you tell anything sudden and strange, 
you expect people will say something— whatever it is." 

Nobody but Sara herself ever knew what had happened 
in her room after she had run up-stairs and locked her door. 
In fact, she herself scarcely remembered anything but that 
she walked up and down, saying over and over again to 
herself in a voice which did not seem her own: 

"My papa is dead! My papa is dead!" 

Once she stopped before Emily, who sat watching her 
from her chair, and cried out wildly: 

"Emily! Do you hear? Do you hear — papa is dead? 
He is dead in India — thousands of miles away." 

When she came into Miss Minchin's sitting-room in an- 
swer to her summons, her face was white and her eyes had 
dark rings around them. Her mouth was set as if she did 
not wish it to reveal what she had suffered and was suffer- 
ing. She did not look in the least like the rose-colored but- 
terfly child who had flown about from one of her treasures 


to the other in the decorated school-room. She looked in- 
stead a strange, desolate, almost grotesque little figure. 

She had put on, without Mariette's help, the cast-aside 
black-velvet frock. It was too short and tight, and her 
slender legs looked long and thin, showing themselves from 
beneath the brief skirt. As she had not found a piece of 
black ribbon, her short, thick, black hair tumbled loosely 
about her face and contrasted strongly with its pallor. She 
held Emily tightly in one arm, and Emily was swathed in 
a piece of black material. 

" Put down your doll," said Miss Minchin. " What do 
you mean by bringing her here? " 

" No," Sara answered. " I will not put her down. She 
is all I have. My papa gave her to me." 

She had always made Miss INIinchin feel secretly un- 
comfortable, and she did so now. She did not speak with 
rudeness so much as with a cold steadiness with which Miss 
Minchin felt it difficult to cope — perhaps because she knew 
she was doing a heartless and inhuman thing. 

" You will have no time for dolls in future," she said. 
" You will have to work and improve yourself and make 
yourself useful." 

Sara kept her big, strange eyes fixed on her, and said not 
a word. 

" Everything will be very different now," Miss Minchin 
w^ent on. " I suppose Miss Amelia has explained matters 
to you." 

" Yes," answered Sara. " My papa is dead. He left me 
no money. I am quite poor." 


"You are a beggar," said Miss Minchin, her temper 
rising at the recollection of what all this meant. " It ap- 
pears that you have no relations and no home, and no one 
to take care of you." 

For a moment the thin, pale little face twitched, but Sara 
again said nothing. 

"What are you staring at?" demanded Miss Minchin, 
sharply. " Are you so stupid that you cannot understand? 
I tell you that you are quite alone in the world, and have 
no one to do anything for you, unless I choose to keep you 
here out of charity." 

" I understand," answered Sara, in a low tone; and there 
was a sound as if she had gulped down something which 
rose in her throat. " I understand." 

" That doll," cried Miss JVIinchin, pointing to the splen- 
did birthday gift seated near — "that ridiculous doll, with 
all her nonsensical, extravagant things— Z actually paid 
the bill for her!" 

Sara turned her head toward the chair. 

" The Last Doll," she said. " The Last Doll." And her 
little mournful voice had an odd sound. 

"The Last Doll, indeed!" said Miss Minchin. "And 
she is mine, not yours. Everything you own is mine." 

" Please take it away from me, then," said Sara. " I do 
not want it." 

If she had cried and sobbed and seemed frightened. Miss 
Minchin might almost have had more patience with her. 
She was a woman who liked to domineer and feel her 
power, and as she looked at Sara's pale little steadfast face 


and heard her proud little voice, she quite felt as if her 
might was being set at naught. 

"Don't put on grand airs," she said. "The time for 
that sort of thing is past. You are not a princess any 
longer. Your carriage and your pony will be sent away 
—your maid will be dismissed. You will wear your oldest 
and plainest clothes — your extravagant ones are no longer 
suited to your station. You are like Becky — you must 
work for your living." 

To her surprise, a faint gleam of light came into the 
child's eyes— a shade of relief. 

"Can I work?" she said. "If I can work it will not 
matter so much. What can I do? " 

" You can do anything you are told," was the answer. 
"You are a sharp child, and pick up things readily. If 
you make yourself useful I may let you stay here. You 
speak French well, and you can help with the younger 

"May I?" exclaimed Sara. "Oh, please let me! I 
know I can teach them. I like them, and they like 

" Don't talk nonsense about people liking you," said 
Miss Minchin. " You will have to do more than teach 
the little ones. You will run errands and help in the 
kitchen as well as in the school-room. If you don't please 
me, you will be sent away. Remember that. Now go." 

Sara stood still just a moment, looking at her. In her 
young soul, she was thinking deep and strange things. 
Then she turned to leave the room. 


"Stop!" said Miss Minchin. "Don't you intend to 
thank me?" 

Sara paused, and all the deep, strange thoughts surged 
up in her breast. 

"What for?" she said. 

" For my kindness to you," replied Miss Minchin. 
" For my kindness in giving you a home." 

Sara made two or three steps toward her. Her thin lit- 
tle chest heaved up and down, and she spoke in a strange, 
unchildishly fierce way. 

" You are not kind," she said. " You are 7iot kind, and 
it is not a home." And she had turned and run out of the 
room before INIiss ^linchin could stop her or do anything 
but stare after her with stony anger. 

She went up the stairs slowly, but panting for breath, 
and she held Emily tightly against her side. 

" I wish she could talk," she said to herself. " If she 
could speak — if she could speak!" 

She meant to go to her room and lie down on the tiger- 
skin, with her cheek upon the great cat's head, and look 
into the fire and think and think and think. But just 
before she reached the landing Miss Amelia came out of 
the door and closed it behind her, and stood before it, look- 
ing nervous and awkward. The truth was that she felt se- 
cretly ashamed of the thing she had been ordered to do. 

" You — you are not to go in there," she said. 

" Not go in? " exclaimed Sara, and she fell back a pace. 

" That is not your room now," Miss Amelia answered, 
reddening a little. 

Somehow, all at once, Sara understood. She realized 

She seldom cried. She du\ not erv now, 


that this was the beginning of the change Miss Minchin 
had spoken of. 

" Where is my room? " she asked, hoping very much that 
her voice did not shake. 

"You are to sleep in the attic next to Becky." 

Sara knew where it was. Becky had told her about it. 
She turned, and mounted up two flights of stairs. The 
last one was narrow, and covered with shabby strips of old 
carpet. She felt as if she were walking away and leaving 
far behind her the world in which that other child, who no 
longer seemed herself, had lived. This child, in her short, 
tight old frock, climbing the stairs to the attic, was quite 
a different creature. 

When she reached the attic door and opened it, her heart 
gave a dreary little thump. Then she shut the door and 
stood against it and looked about her. 

Yes, this was another world. The room had a slanting 
roof and was whitewashed. The whitewash was dingy and 
had fallen off in places. There was a rusty grate, an old 
iron bedstead, and a hard bed covered with a faded cover- 
let. Some pieces of furniture too much worn to be used 
down-stairs had been sent up. Under the skylight in the 
roof, which showed nothing but an oblong piece of dull 
gray sky, there stood an old battered red footstool. Sara 
went to it and sat down. She seldom cried. She did not 
cry now. She laid Emily across her knees and put her face 
down upon her and her arms around her, and sat there, her 
little black head resting on the black draperies, not saying 
one word, not making one sound. 

And as she sat in this silence there came a low tap at the 


door— such a low, humble one that slie did not at first hear 
it, and, indeed, was not roused until the door was timidly 
pushed open and a poor tear-smeared face appeared peep- 
ing round it. It was Becky's face, and Becky had been 
crying furtively for hours and rubbing her eyes with her 
kitchen apron until she looked strange indeed. 

"Oh, miss," she said under her breath. "Might I— 
would you allow me— jest to come in?" 

Sara lifted her head and looked at her. She tried to 
begin a smile, and somehow she could not. Suddenly — and 
it was all through the loving mournfulness of Becky's 
streaming eyes — her face looked more like a child's not so 
much too old for her years. She held out her hand and 
gave a little sob. 

" Oh, Becky," she said. " I told you we were just the 
same— only two little girls— just two little girls. You see 
how true it is. There 's no difference now. I 'm not a 
princess any more." 

Becky ran to her and caught her hand, and hugged it to 
her breast, kneeling beside her and sobbing with love and 

" Yes, miss, you are," she cried, and her words were all 
broken. "Whats'ever 'appens to you— whats'ever— 
you'd be a princess all the same— an' nothin' could n't 
make you nothin' different." 



THE first night she spent in her attic was a thing 
Sara never forgot. During its passing, she Hved 
through a wild, unchildhke woe of which she never 
spoke to any one about her. There was no one who would 
have understood. It was, indeed, well for her that as she 
lay awake in the darkness her mind was forcibly distracted, 
now and then, by the strangeness of her surroundings. It 
was, perhaps, well for her that she was reminded by her 
small body of material things. If this had not been so, the 
anguish of her young mind might have been too great for 
a child to bear. But, really, while the night was passing 
she scarcely knew that she had a body at all or remembered 
any other thing than one. 

"My papa is dead!" she kept whispering to herself. 
" My papa is dead! " 

It was not until long afterward that she realized that her 
bed had been so hard that she turned over and over in it 
to find a place to rest, that the darkness seemed more in- 
tense than any she had ever known, and that the wind 
howled over the roof among the chimneys like something 
which wailed aloud. Then there was something worse. 


This was certain scufflings and scratchings and squeakings 
in the walls and behind the skirting boards. She knew 
what they meant, because Becky had described them. 
They meant rats and mice who were either fighting with 
each other or playing together. Once or twice she even 
heard sharp-toed feet scurrying across the floor, and she re- 
membered in those after daj^s, when she recalled things, 
that when first she heard them she started up in bed and sat 
trembling, and when she lay down again covered her head 
with the bedclothes. 

The change in her life did not come about gradually, but 
was made all at once. 

" She must begin as she is to go on," Miss Minchin said 
to Miss Amelia. " She must be taught at once what she 
is to expect." 

Mariette had left the house the next morning. The 
glimpse Sara caught of her sitting-room, as she passed its 
open door, showed her that everything had been changed. 
Her ornaments and luxuries had been removed, and a bed 
had been placed in a corner to transform it into a new 
pupil's bedroom. 

When she went down to breakfast she saw that her seat 
at Miss Minchin's side was occupied by Lavinia, and Miss 
Minchin spoke to her coldly. 

" You will begin your new duties, Sara," she said, " by 
taking your seat with the younger children at a smaller 
table. You must keep them quiet, and see that they behave 
well and do not waste their food. You ought to have been 
down earlier. Lottie has already upset her tea." 


That was the beginning, and from day to day the duties 
given to her were added to. She taught the younger chil- 
dren French and heard their other lessons, and these were 
the least of her labors. It was found that she could be 
made use of in numberless directions. She could be sent 
on errands at any time and in all weathers. She could be 
told to do things other people neglected. The cook and the 
housemaids took their tone from JVIiss Minchin, and rather 
enjoyed ordering about the " young one " who had been 
made so much fuss over for so long. They were not ser- 
vants of the best class, and had neither good manners nor 
good tempers, and it was frequently convenient to have at 
hand some one on whom blame could be laid. 

During the first month or two, Sara thought that her 
willingness to do things as well as she could, and her silence 
under reproof, might soften those who drove her so hard. 
In her proud little heart she wanted them to see that she 
was trying to earn her living and not accepting charity. 
But the time came when she saw that no one was softened 
at all ; and the more willing she was to do as she was told, 
the more domineering and exacting careless housemaids 
became, and the more ready a scolding cook was to blame 

If she had been older, Miss Minchin would have given 
her the bigger girls to teach and saved money by dismiss- 
ing an instructress ; but while she remained and looked like 
a child, she could be made more useful as a sort of little 
superior errand girl and maid of all work. An ordinary 
errand boy would not have been so clever and reliable. 


Sara could be trusted with difficult commissions and com- 
plicated messages. She could even go and pay bills, and 
she combined with this the ability to dust a room well and 
to set things in order. 

Her own lessons became things of the past. She was 
taught nothing, and only after long and busy days spent 
in running here and there at everybody's orders was she 
grudgingly allowed to go into the deserted school-room, 
with a pile of old books, and study alone at night. 

" If I do not remind myself of the things I have learned, 
perhaps I may forget them," she said to herself. " I am 
almost a scullery-maid, and if I am a scullery-maid who 
knows nothing, I shall be like poor Becky. I wonder if I 
could quite forget and begin to drop my ^'s and not re- 
member that Henry the Eighth had six wives." 

One of the most curious things in her new existence was 
her changed position among the pupils. Instead of being 
a sort of small royal personage among them, she no longer 
seemed to be one of their number at all. She was kept so 
constantly at work that she scarcely ever had an oppor- 
tunity of speaking to any of them, and she could not avoid 
seeing that Miss Minchin preferred that she should live 
a life apart from that of the occupants of the school-room. 

" I will not have her forming intimacies and talking to 
the other children," that lady said. " Girls like a grievance, 
and if she begins to tell romantic stories about herself, she 
will become an ill-used heroine, and parents will be given a 
wrong impression. It is better that she should live a sepa- 
rate life — one suited to her circumstances. I am giving 


her a home, and that is more than she has any right to ex- 
pect from me." 

Sara did not expect much, and was far too proud to try 
to continue to be intimate with girls who evidently felt 
rather awkward and uncertain about her. The fact was 
that Miss Minchin's pupils were a set of dull, matter-of- 
fact young people. They were accustomed to being rich 
and comfortable, and as Sara's frocks grew shorter and 
shabbier and queerer-looking, and it became an established 
fact that she wore shoes with holes in them and was sent out 
to buy groceries and carry them through the streets in a 
basket on her arm when the cook wanted them in a hurry, 
they felt rather as if, when they spoke to her, they were 
addressing an under servant. 

" To think that she was the girl with the diamond- 
mines," Lavinia commented. " She does look an object. 
And she 's queerer than ever. I never liked her much, but 
I can't bear that way she has now of looking at people with- 
out speaking— just as if she was finding them out." 

" I am," said Sara, promptly, when she heard of this. 
" That 's what I look at some people for. I like to know 
about them. I think them over afterward." 

The truth was that she had saved herself annoyance sev- 
eral times by keeping her eye on Lavinia, who was quite 
ready to make mischief, and would have been rather pleased 
to have made it for the ex-show pupil. 

Sara never made any mischief herself, or interfered with 
any one. She worked like a drudge ; she tramped through 
the wet streets, carrying parcels and baskets; she labored 


with the childish inattention of the httle ones' French les- 
sons ; as she became shabbier and more forlorn-looking, she 
was told that she had better take her meals down-stairs ; she 
was treated as if she was nobody's concern, and her heart 
grew proud and sore, but she never told any one what she 

" Soldiers don't complain," she would say between her 
small, shut teeth. " I am not going to do it ; I will pretend 
this is part of a war." 

But there were hours when her child heart might almost 
have broken with loneliness but for three people. 

The first, it must be owned, was Becky— just Becky. 
Throughout all that first night spent in the garret, she had 
felt a vague comfort in knowing that on the other side of 
the wall in which the rats scuffled and squeaked there was 
another young human creature. And during the nights 
that followed the sense of comfort grew. They had little 
chance to speak to each other during the day. Each had 
her own tasks to perform, and any attempt at conversation 
would have been regarded as a tendency to loiter and lose 

"Don't mind me, miss," Becky w^hispered during the 
first morning, " if I don't say nothin' polite. Some un 'd 
be down on us if I did. I means ' please ' an' ' thank you ' 
an' ' beg pardon,' but I dass n't to take time to say it." 

But before daybreak she used to slip into Sara's attic 
and button her dress and give her such help as she required 
before she went down-stairs to light the kitchen fire. And 
when night came Sara always heard the humble knock at 


her door which meant that her handmaid was ready to help 
her again if she was needed. During the first weeks of her 
grief Sara felt as if she were too stupefied to talk, so it hap- 
pened that some time passed before they saw each other 
much or exchanged visits. Becky's heart told her that it 
was best that people in trouble should be left alone. 

The second of the trio of comforters was Ermengarde, 
but odd things happened before Ermengarde found her 

When Sara's mind seemed to awaken again to the life 
about her, she realized that she had forgotten that an Er- 
mengarde lived in the world. The two had always been 
friends, but Sara had felt as if she were years the older. It 
could not be contested that Ermengarde was as dull as she 
was affectionate. She clung to Sara in a simple, helpless 
way; she brought her lessons to her that she might be 
helped; she listened to her every word and besieged her 
with requests for stories. But she had nothing interesting 
to say herself, and she loathed books of every description. 
She was, in fact, not a person one would remember when 
one was caught in the storm of a great trouble, and Sara 
forgot her. 

It had been all the easier to forget her because she had 
been suddenly called home for a few weeks. When she 
came back she did not see Sara for a day or two, and when 
she met her for the first time she encountered her coming 
down a corridor with her arms full of garments which were 
to be taken down-stairs to be mended. Sara herself had 
already been taught to mend them. She looked pale and 


unlike herself, and she was attired in the queer, outgrown 
frock whose shortness showed so much thin black leg. 

Ermengarde was too slow a girl to be equal to such a 
situation. She could not think of anything to say. She 
knew what had happened, but, somehow, she had never im- 
agined Sara could look like this— so odd and poor and al- 
most like a servant. It made her quite miserable, and she 
could do nothing but break into a short hysterical laugh 
and exclaim— aimlessly and as if without any meaning: 

"Oh, Sara! is that you?" 

" Yes," answered Sara, and suddenly a strange thought 
passed through her mind and made her face flush. 

She held the pile of garments in her arms, and her chin 
rested upon the top of it to keep it steady. Something in 
the look of her straight-gazing eyes made Ermengarde 
lose her wits still more. She felt as if Sara had changed 
into a new kind of girl, and she had never known her before. 
Perhaps it was because she had suddenly grown poor and 
had to mend things and work like Becky. 

"Oh," she stammered. " How— how are you?" 

"I don't know," Sara replied. "How are you?" 

" I 'm— I 'm quite well," said Ermengarde, overwhelmed 
with shyness. Then spasmodically she thought of some- 
thing to say which seemed more intimate. " Are you— are 
you very unhappy?" she said in a rush. 

Then Sara was guilty of an injustice. Just at that mo- 
ment her torn heart swelled within her, and she felt that if 
any one was as stupid as that, one had better get away from 


"What do you think?" she said. "Do you think I am 
very happy?" and she marched past her without another 

In course of time she reahzed that if her wretchedness 
had not made her forget things, she would have known that 
poor, dull Ermengarde was not to be blamed for her un- 
ready, awkward ways. She was always awkward, and the 
more she felt, the more stupid she was given to being. 

But the sudden thought which had flashed upon her had 
made her over-sensitive. 

" She is like the others," she had thought. " She does not 
really want to talk to me. She knows no one does." 

So for several weeks a barrier stood between them. 
When they met by chance Sara looked the other way, 
and Ermengarde felt too stiff and embarrassed to 
speak. Sometimes they nodded to each other in passing, 
but there were times when they did not even exchange a 

" If she would rather not talk to me," Sara thought, " I 
will keep out of her way. Miss Minchin makes that easy 

Miss Minchin made it so easy that at last they scarcely 
saw each other at all. At that time it was noticed that Er- 
mengarde was more stupid than ever, and that she looked 
listless and unhappy. She used to sit in the Avindow-seat, 
huddled in a heap, and stare out of the window without 
speaking. Once Jessie, who was passing, stopped to look 
at her curiously. 

"What are you crying for, Ermengarde?" she asked. 


" I 'm not crying," answered Ermengarde, in a muffled, 
unsteady voice. 

" You are," said Jessie. " A great big tear just rolled 
down the bridge of your nose and dropped oif at the end 
of it. And there goes another." 

" Well," said Ermengarde, " I 'm miserable— and no one 
need interfere." And she turned her plump back and took 
out her handkerchief and boldly hid her face in it. 

That night, when Sara went to her attic, she was later 
than usual. She had been kept at work until after the hour 
at which the pupils went to bed, and after that she had gone 
to her lessons in the lonely school-room. When she reached 
the top of the stairs, she was surprised to see a ghmmer of 
light coming from under the attic door. 

"Nobody goes there but myself," she thought quickly; 
" but some one has lighted a candle." 

Some one had, indeed, lighted a candle, and it was not 
burning in the kitchen candlestick she was expected to use, 
but in one of those belonging to the pupils' bedrooms. The 
some one was sitting upon the battered footstool, and 
was dressed in her night-gown and wrapped up in a red 
shawl. It was Ermengarde. 

"Ermengarde!" cried Sara. She was so startled that 
she was almost frightened. " You will get into trouble." 

Ermengarde stumbled up from her footstool. She 
shuffled across the attic in her bedroom slippers, which 
were too large for her. Her eyes and nose were pink with 

" I know I shall— if I 'm found out," she said. " But 


I don't care— I don't care a bit. Oh, Sara, please tell me. 
What is the matter? Why don't you like me any more? " 

Something in her voice made the familiar lump rise in 
Sara's throat. It was so affectionate and simple— so like 
the old Ermengarde who had asked her to be "best 
friends." It sounded as if she had not meant what she had 
seemed to mean during these past weeks. 

" I do like you," Sara answered. " I thought— you see, 
everything is different now. I thought you — were dif- 

Ermengarde opened her wet eyes wide. 

"Why, it was you who were different!" she cried. 
" You did n't want to talk to me. I did n't know what to 
do. It was you who were different after I came back." 

Sara thought a moment. She saw she had made a mis- 

" I am different," she explained, " though not in the way 
you think. Miss Minchin does not want me to talk to the 
girls. Most of them don't want to talk to me. I thought 
— perhaps— you did n't. So I tried to keep out of your 

" Oh, Sara," Ermengarde almost wailed in her reproach- 
ful dismay. And then after one more look they rushed into 
each other's arms. It must be confessed that Sara's small 
black head lay for some minutes on the shoulder covered by 
the red shawl. When Ermengarde had seemed to desert 
her, she had felt horribly lonely. 

Afterward they sat down upon the floor together, Sara 
clasping her knees with her arms, and Ermengarde rolled 


up in her shawl. Ermengarde looked at the odd, big-eyed 
little face adoringly. 

" I could n't bear it any more," she said. " I dare say 
you could live without me, Sara ; but I could n't live with- 
out you. I was nearly dead. So to-night, when I was cry- 
ing under the bedclothes, I thought all at once of creeping 
up here and just begging you to let us be friends again." 

" You are nicer than I am," said Sara. " I was too proud 
to try and make friends. You see, now that trials have 
come, they have shown that I am not a nice child. I was 
afraid they would. Perhaps " — wrinkling her forehead 
wisely — " that is what they were sent for." 

" I don't see any good in them," said Ermengarde, 

"Neither do I — to speak the truth," admitted Sara, 
frankly. " But I suppose there might be good in things, 
even if we don't see it. There 7wz^/ii"— doubtfully— "be 
good in Miss Minchin." 

Ermengarde looked round the attic with a rather fear- 
some curiosity. 

" Sara," she said, " do you think you can bear living 

Sara looked round also. 

" If I pretend it 's quite different, I can," she answered; 
"or if I pretend it is a place in a story." 

She spoke slowly. Her imagination was beginning to 
work for her. It had not worked for her at all since her 
troubles had come upon her. She had felt as if it had been 


" Other people have lived in worse places. Think of the 
Count of IMonte Cristo in the dungeons of the Chateau 
d'lf . And think of the people in the Bastille ! " 

" The Bastille," half whispered Ermengarde, watching 
her and beginning to be fascinated. She remembered sto- 
ries of the French Revolution which Sara had been able to 
fix in her mind by her dramatic relation of them. No one 
but Sara could have done it. 

A well-known glow came into Sara's eyes. 

" Yes," she said, hugging her knees. " That will be a 
good place to pretend about. I am a prisoner in the Bas- 
tille. I have been here for years and years — and years; 
and everybody has forgotten about me. Miss Minchin is 
the jailer— and Becky"— a sudden light adding itself to 
the glow in her eyes— "Becky is the prisoner in the next 

She turned to Ermengarde, looking quite like the old 

" I shall pretend that," she said ; " and it will be a great 

Ermengarde was at once enraptured and awed. 

" And will you tell me all about it? " she said. " May I 
creep up here at night, whenever it is safe, and hear the 
things you have made up in the day ? It will seem as if we 
were more ' best friends ' than ever." 

" Yes," answered Sara, nodding. " Adversity tries peo- 
ple, and mine has tried you and proved how nice you are." 



THE third person in the trio was Lottie. She was 
a small thing and did not know what adversity 
meant, and was much bewildered by the alteration 
she saw in her young adopted mother. She had heard it 
rumored that strange things had happened to Sara, but she 
could not understand why she looked different — why she 
wore an old black frock and came into the school-room 
only to teach instead of to sit in her place of honor and 
learn lessons herself. There had been much whispering 
among the little ones when it had been discovered that Sara 
no longer lived in the rooms in which Emily had so long sat 
in state. Lottie's chief difficulty was that Sara said so little 
when one asked her questions. At seven mysteries must 
be made very clear if one is to understand them. 

"Are you veiy poor now, Sara?" she had asked confi- 
dentially the first morning her friend took charge of the 
small French class. " Are you as poor as a beggar? " She 
thrust a fat hand into the slim one and opened round, tear- 
ful eyes. " I don't want you to be as poor as a beggar." 

She looked as if she was going to cry, and Sara hur- 
riedly consoled her. 


*' Beggars have nowhere to hve," she said courageously. 
"I have a place to live in." 

" Where do you live? " persisted Lottie. " The new girl 
sleeps in your room, and it is n't pretty any more." 

" I live in another room," said Sara. 

" Is it a nice one? " inquired Lottie. " I want to go and 
see it." 

" You must not talk," said Sara. " Miss Minchin is 
looking at us. She will be angry with me for letting you 

She had found out already that she was to be held ac- 
countable for everything which was objected to. If the 
children were not attentive, if they talked, if they were 
restless, it was she who would be reproved. 

But Lottie was a determined little person. If Sara 
would not tell her where she lived, she would find out in 
some other way. She talked to her small companions and 
hung about the elder girls and listened when they were gos- 
siping; and acting upon certain information they had un- 
consciously let drop, she started late one afternoon on a 
voyage of discovery, climbing stairs she had never known 
the existence of, until she reached the attic floor. There she 
found two doors near each other, and opening one, she saw 
her beloved Sara standing upon an old table and looking 
out of a window. 

" Sara! " she cried, aghast. " Mamma Sara! " She was 
aghast because the attic was so bare and ugly and seemed 
so far away from all the world. Her short legs had seemed 
to have been mounting hundreds of stairs. 


Sara turned round at the sound of her voice. It was 
her turn to be aghast. What would happen now ? If Lot- 
tie began to cry and any one chanced to hear, they were 
both lost. She jumped down from her table and ran to the 

" Don't cry andmake a noise," she implored. " I shall be 
scolded if you do, and I have been scolded all day. It 's— 
it 's not such a bad room, Lottie." 

"Is n't it?" gasped Lottie, and as she looked round it 
she bit her lip. She was a spoiled child yet, but she was 
fond enough of her adopted parent to make an effort to 
control herself for her sake. Then, somehow, it was quite 
possible that any place in which Sara lived might turn out 
to be nice. "Why is n't it, Sara?" she almost whispered. 

Sara hugged her close and tried to laugh. There was a 
sort of comfort in the warmth of the plump, childish body. 
She had had a hard day and had been staring out of the 
windows with hot eyes. 

" You can see all sorts of things you can't see down- 
stairs," she said. 

" What sort of things? " demanded Lottie, with that curi- 
osity Sara could always awaken even in bigger girls. 

" Chimneys— quite close to us— with smoke curling up in 
wreaths and clouds and going up into the sky, — and spar- 
rows hoj)ping about and talking to each other just as if 
they were people, — and other attic windows where heads 
may pop out any minute and you can wonder who they be- 
long to. And it all feels as high up— as if it was another 

The sparrows twittered and hopped about ciuite witliout fear. 


"Oh, let me see it!" cried Lottie. "Lift me up!" 

Sara lifted her up, and thej^ stood on the old table to- 
gether and leaned on the edge of the flat window in the 
roof, and looked out. 

Any one who has not done this does not know what a 
different world they saw. The slates spread out on either 
side of them and slanted down into the rain gutter-pipes. 
The sparrows, being at home there, twittered and hopped 
about quite without fear. Two of them perched on the 
chimney-top nearest and quarrelled with each other fiercely 
until one pecked the other and drove him away. The gar- 
ret window next to theirs was shut because the house next 
door was empty. 

" I wish some one lived there," Sara said. " It is so close 
that if there was a little girl in the attic, we could talk to 
each other through the windows and climb over to see each 
other, if we were not afraid of falling." 

The sky seemed so much nearer than when one saw it 
from the street, that Lottie was enchanted. From the attic 
window, among the chimney-pots, the things which were 
happening in the world below seemed almost unreal. One 
scarcely believed in the existence of Miss Minchin and 
Miss Amelia and the school-room, and the roll of wheels in 
the square seemed a sound belonging to another existence. 

" Oh, Sara! " cried Lottie, cuddling in her guarding arm. 
" I like this attic — I like it! It is nicer than down-stairs! " 

" Look at that sparrow," whispered Sara. " I wish I 
had some crumbs to throw to him." 

"I have some!" came in a little shriek from Lottie. 


" I have part of a bun in my pocket ; I bought it with my 
penny yesterday, and I saved a bit." 

When they threw out a few crumbs the sparrow jumped 
and flew away to an adjacent chimney-top. He was evi- 
dently not accustomed to intimates in attics, and unex- 
pected crumbs startled him. But when Lottie remained 
quite still and Sara chirped very softly — almost as if she 
were a sparrow herself— he saw that the thing which had 
alarmed him represented hospitality, after all. He put his 
head on one side, and from his perch on the chimney looked 
down at the crumbs with twinkling eyes. Lottie could 
scarcely keep still. 

"Will he come? Will he come?" she whispered. 

" His eyes look as if he would," Sara whispered back. 
" He is thinking and thinking whether he dare. Yes, he 
will! Yes, he is coming!" 

He flew down and hopped toward the crumbs, but 
stopped a few inches away from them, putting his head on 
one side again, as if reflecting on the chances that Sara and 
Lottie might turn out to be big cats and jump on him. At 
last his heart told him they were really nicer than they 
looked, and he hopped nearer and nearer, darted at the 
biggest crumb with a lightning peck, seized it, and carried 
it away to the other side of his chimney. 

" Now he knows/' said Sara. " And he will come back 
for the others." 

He did come back, and even brought a friend, and the 
friend went away and brought a relative, and among them 
they made a hearty meal over which they twittered and 


chattered and exclaimed, stopping every now and then to 
put their heads on one side and examine Lottie and Sara. 
Lottie was so deHghted that she quite forgot her first 
shocked impression of the attic. In fact, when she was 
Hfted down from the table and returned to earthly things, 
as it were, Sara was able to point out to her many beauties 
in the room which she herself would not have suspected the 
existence of. 

" It is so little and so high above everything," she said, 
"that it is almost like a nest in a tree. The slanting 
ceiling is so funny. See, you can scarcely stand up at this 
end of the room ; and when the morning begins to come I 
can lie in bed and look right up into the sky through that 
flat window in the roof. It is like a square patch of light. 
If the sun is going to shine, little pink clouds float about, 
and I feel as if I could touch them. And if it rains, the 
drops patter and patter as if they were saying something 
nice. Then if there are stars, you can lie and try to count 
how many go into the patch. It takes such a lot. And 
just look at that tiny, rusty grate in the corner. If it was 
polished and there was a fire in it, just think how nice it 
would be. You see, it 's really a beautiful little room." 

She was walking round the small place, holding Lottie's 
hand and making gestures which described all the beauties 
she was making herself see. She quite made Lottie see 
them, too. Lottie could always believe in the things Sara 
made pictures of. 

" You see," she said, " there could be a thick, soft blue 
Indian rug on the floor ; and in that corner there could be 


a soft little sofa, with cushions to curl up on; and just 
over it could be a shelf full of books so that one could 
reach them easily ; and there could be a fur rug before the 
fire, and hangings on the wall to cover up the whitewash, 
and pictures. They would have to be little ones, but they 
could be beautiful ; and there could be a lamp with a deep 
rose-colored shade; and a table in the middle, with things 
to have tea with ; and a little fat copper kettle singing on 
the hob; and the bed could be quite different. It could 
be made soft and covered with a lovely silk coverlet. It 
could be beautiful. And perhaps we could coax the spar- 
rows until we made such friends with them that they would 
come and peck at the window and ask to be let in." 
" Oh, Sara! " cried Lottie; " I should like to live here! " 
When Sara had persuaded her to go down-stairs again, 
and, after setting her in her way, had come back to her attic, 
she stood in the middle of it and looked about her. The 
enchantment of her imaginings for Lottie had died away. 
The bed was hard and covered with its dingy quilt. The 
whitewashed wall showed its broken patches, the floor was 
cold and bare, the grate was broken and rusty, and the 
battered footstool, tilted sideways on its injured leg, the 
only seat in the room. She sat down on it for a few min- 
utes and let her head drop in her hands. The mere fact that 
Lottie had come and gone away again made things seem a 
little worse — just as perhaps prisoners feel a little more 
desolate after visitors come and go, leaving them behind. 
" It 's a lonely place," she said. " Sometimes it 's the 
loneliest place in the world." 


She was sitting in this way when her attention was at- 
tracted by a shght sound near her. She hfted her head to 
see where it came from, and if she had been a nervous 
child she would have left her seat on the battered footstool 
in a great hurry. A large rat was sitting up on his hind 
quarters and sniffing the air in an interested manner. 
Some of Lottie's crumbs had dropped upon the floor and 
their scent had drawn him out of his hole. 

He looked so queer and so like a gray-whiskered dwarf 
or gnome that Sara was rather fascinated. He looked at 
her with his bright eyes, as if he were asking a question. 
He was evidently so doubtful that one of the child's queer 
thoughts came into her mind. 

" I dare say it is rather hard to be a rat," she mused. 
" Nobody likes you. People jump and run away and 
scream out, ' Oh, a horrid rat ! ' I should n't like people to 
scream and jump and say, 'Oh, a horrid Sara!' the mo- 
ment they saw me. And set traps for me, and pretend they 
were dinner. It 's so different to be a sparrow. But no- 
body asked this rat if he wanted to be a rat when he was 
made. Nobody said, 'Would n't you rather be a spar- 

She had sat so quietly that the rat had begun to take 
courage. He was very much afraid of her, but perhaps he 
had a heart like the sparrow and it told him that she was 
not a thing which pounced. He was very hungry. He had 
a wife and a large family in the wall, and they had had 
frightfully bad luck for several days. He had left the 
children crying bitterly, and felt he would risk a good 


deal for a few crumbs, so he cautiously dropped upon his 

" Come on," said Sara; " I 'm not a trap. You can have 
them, poor thing! Prisoners in the Bastille used to make 
friends with rats. Suppose I make friends with you." 

How it is that animals understand things I do not know, 
but it is certain that they do understand. Perhaps there is 
a language which is not made of words and everything in 
the world understands it. Perhaps there is a soul hidden 
in everything and it can always speak, without even mak- 
ing a sound, to another soul. But whatsoever was the rea- 
son, the rat knew from that moment that he was safe — even 
though he was a rat. He knew that this young human 
being sitting on the red footstool would not jump up and 
terrify him with wild, sharp noises or throw heavy objects 
at him which, if they did not fall and crush him, would send 
him limping in his scurry back to his hole. He was really a 
very nice rat, and did not mean the least harm. When he 
had stood on his hind legs and sniffed the air, with his bright 
eyes fixed on Sara, he had hoped that she would understand 
this, and would not begin by hating him as an enemy. 
When the mysterious thing which speaks without saying 
any words told him that she would not, he went softly to- 
ward the crumbs and began to eat them. As he did it he 
glanced every now and then at Sara, just as the sparrows 
had done, and his expression was so very apologetic that 
it touched her heart. 

She sat and watched him without making any movement. 
One crumb was very much larger than the others— in fact. 


it could scarcely be called a crumb. It was evident that he 
wanted that piece very much, but it lay quite near the foot- 
stool and he was still rather timid. 

" I believe he wants it to carry to his family in the wall," 
Sara thought. " If I do not stir at all, perhaps he will 
come and get it." 

She scarcely allowed herself to breathe, she was so 
deeply interested. The rat shuffled a little nearer and ate 
a few more crumbs, then he stopped and sniffed delicately, 
giving a side glance at the occupant of the footstool; then 
he darted at the piece of bun with something very like the 
sudden boldness of the sparrow, and the instant he had pos- 
session of it fled back to the wall, slipped down a crack in 
the skirting board, and was gone. 

" I knew he wanted it for his children," said Sara. " I 
do believe I could make friends with hihi." 

A week or so afterward, on one of the rare nights when 
Ermengarde found it safe to steal up to the attic, when she 
tapped on the door with the tips of her fingers Sara did 
not come to her for two or three minutes. There was, in- 
deed, such a silence in the room at first that Ermengarde 
wondered if she could have fallen asleep. Then, to her sur- 
prise, she heard her utter a little, low laugh and speak coax- 
ingly to some one. 

"There!" Ermengarde heard her say. "Take it and 
go home, Melchisedec ! Go home to your wife!" 

Almost immediately Sara opened the door, and when she 
did so she found Ermengarde standing with alarmed eyes 
upon the threshold. 


" Who — who arc you talking to, Sara? " she gasped out. 

Sara drew her in cautiously, but she looked as if some- 
thing pleased and amused her. 

" You must promise not to be frightened— not to scream 
tlie least bit, or I can't tell you," she answered. 

Ermengarde felt almost inclined to scream on the spot, 
but managed to control herself. She looked all round the 
attic and saw no one. And yet Sara had certainly been 
sjDcaking to some one. She thought of ghosts. 

"Is it— something that will frighten me?" she asked 

" Some people are afraid of them," said Sara. " I was 
at first, — but I am not now." 

"Was it— a ghost?" quaked Ermengarde. 

" No," said Sara, laughing. " It was my rat." 

Ermengarde made one bound, and landed in the middle 
of the little dingy bed. She tucked her feet under her 
night-gown and the red shawl. She did not scream, but she 
gasped with fright. 

" Oh ! oh ! " she cried under her breath. " A rat ! A rat ! " 

" I was afraid you would be frightened," said Sara. 
" But you need n't be. I am making him tame. He ac- 
tually knows me and comes out when I call him. Are you 
too frightened to want to see him?" 

The truth was that, as the days had gone on and, with the 
aid of scraps brought up from the kitchen, her curious 
friendship had developed, she had gradually forgotten that 
the timid creature she was becoming familiar with was a 
mere rat. 


At first Ermengarde was too much alarmed to do any- 
thing but huddle in a heap upon the bed and tuck up her 
feet, but the sight of Sara's composed little countenance 
and the story of Melchisedec's first appearance began at 
last to rouse her curiosity, and she leaned forward over the 
edge of the bed and watched Sara go and kneel down by 
the hole in the skirting board. 

" He— he won't run out quickly and jump on the bed, 
will he?" she said. 

" No," answered Sara. " He 's as polite as we are. He 
is just like a person. Now watch!" 

She began to make a low, whistling sound — so low and 
coaxing that it could only have been heard in entire still- 
ness. She did it several times, looking entirely absorbed 
in it. Ermengarde thought she looked as if she were work- 
ing a spell. And at last, evidently in response to it, 
a gray-whiskered, bright-eyed head peeped out of the 
hole. Sara had some crumbs in her hand. She dropped 
them, and Melchisedec came quietly forth and ate 
them. A piece of larger size than the rest he took 
and carried in the most businesslike manner back to his 

" You see," said Sara, " that is for his wife and children. 
He is very nice. He only eats the little bits. After he goes 
back I can always hear his family squeaking for joy. 
There are three kinds of squeaks. One kind is the chil- 
dren's, and one is Mrs. Melchisedec's, and one is Mel- 
chisedec's own." 

Ermengarde began to laugh. 


"Oh, Sara!" she said. "You are queer,— but you are 

" I know I am queer," admitted Sara, cheerfully; " and 
I try to be nice." She rubbed her forehead with her little 
brown paw, and a puzzled, tender look came into her face. 
"Papa always laughed at me," she said; "but I liked it. 
He thought I was queer, but he liked me to make up 
things. I— I can't help making up things. If I did n't, I 
don't believe I could live." She paused and glanced round 
the attic. " I 'm sure I could n't hve here," she added in a 
low voice. 

Ermengarde was interested, as she always was. " When 
you talk about things," she said, " they seem as if they grew 
real. You talk about Melchisedec as if he was a person." 

"He is a person," said Sara. "He gets hungry and 
frightened, just as we do; and he is married and has chil- 
dren. How do we know he does n't think things, just as we 
do? His eyes look as if he was a person. That was why 
I gave him a name." 

She sat down on the floor in her favorite attitude, hold- 
ing her knees. 

" Besides," she said, " he is a Bastille rat sent to be my 
friend. I can always get a bit of bread the cook has thrown 
away, and it is quite enough to support him." 

"Is it the Bastille yet?" asked Ermengarde, eagerly. 
"Do you always pretend it is the Bastille?" 

" Nearly always," answered Sara. " Sometimes I try to 
pretend it is another kind of place; but the Bastille is 
generally easiest— particularly when it is cold." 


Just at that moment Ermengarde almost jumped oiF the 
bed, she was so startled by a sound she heard. It was like 
two distinct knocks on the wall. 

"What is that?" she exclaimed. 

Sara got up from the floor and answered quite dramati- 
cally : 

"It is the prisoner in the next cell." 

"Becky!" cried Ermengarde, enraptured. 

"Yes," said Sara. "Listen; the two knocks meant, 
'Prisoner, are you there?'" 

She knocked three times on the wall herself, as if in 

" That means, ' Yes, I am here, and all is well.' " 

Four knocks came from Becky's side of the wall. 

" That means," explained Sara, " ' Then, fellow-suf- 
ferer, we will sleep in peace. Good-night.' " 

Ermengarde quite beamed with delight. 

"Oh, Sara!" she whispered joyfully. "It is like a 

" It is a story," said Sara. " Everything 's a story. You 
are a story — I am a story. Miss Minchin is a story." 

And she sat down again and talked until Ermengarde 
forgot that she was a sort of escaped prisoner herself, and 
had to be reminded by Sara that she could not remain in 
the Bastille all night, but must steal noiselessly down-stairs 
again and creep back into her deserted bed. 



BUT it was a perilous thing for Ermengarde and 
Lottie to make pilgrimages to the attic. They could 
never be quite sure when Sara would be there, and 
they could scarcely ever be certain that Miss Amelia would 
not make a tour of inspection through the bedrooms after 
the pupils were supposed to be asleep. So their visits were 
rare ones, and Sara lived a strange and lonely life. It was 
a lonelier life when she was down-stairs than when she was 
in her attic. She had no one to talk to ; and when she was 
sent out on errands and walked through the streets, a for- 
lorn little figure carrying a basket or a parcel, trying to 
hold her hat on when the wind was blowing, and feehng 
the water soak through her shoes when it was raining, she 
felt as if the crowds hurrying past her made her loneliness 
greater. When she had been the Princess Sara, driving 
through the streets in her brougham, or walking, attended 
by Mariette, the sight of her bright, eager little face and 
picturesque coats and hats had often caused people to look 
after her. A happy, beautifully cared for little girl natu- 
rally attracts attention. Shabby, poorly dressed children 
are not rare enough and pretty enough to make people turn 



around to look at them and smile. No one looked at Sara 
in these days, and no one seemed to see her as she hurried 
along the crowded pavements. She had begun to grow 
very fast, and, as she was dressed onty in such clothes as the 
plainer remnants of her wardrobe would supply, she knew 
she looked very queer, indeed. All her valuable garments 
had been disposed of, and such as had been left for her use 
she was expected to wear so long as she could put them on 
at all. Sometimes, when she passed a shop window with 
a mirror in it, she almost laughed outright on catching a 
glimpse of herself, and sometimes her face went red and 
she bit her lip and turned away. 

In the evening, when she passed houses whose windows 
were lighted up, she used to look into the warm rooms and 
amuse herself by imagining things about the people she 
saw sitting before the fires or about the tables. It always 
interested her to catch glimpses of rooms before the shut- 
ters were closed. There were several families in the 
square in which Miss Minchin lived, with which she had 
become quite familiar in a way of her own. The one she 
liked best she called the Large Family. She called it the 
Large Family not because the members of it were big, — 
for, indeed, most of them were little, — but because there 
were so many of them. There were eight children in the 
Large Family, and a stout, rosy mother, and a stout, rosy 
father, and a stout, rosy grandmother, and any number of 
servants. The eight children were always either being 
taken out to walk or to ride in perambulators by comfort- 
able nurses, or they were going to drive with their mamma, 


or they were flying to the door in the evening to meet their 
papa and kiss him and dance around him and drag off 
his overcoat and look in the pockets for packages, or they 
were crowding about the nursery windows and looking out 
and pushing each other and laughing— in fact, they were 
always doing something enjoyable and suited to the tastes 
of a large family. Sara was quite fond of them, and had 
given them names out of books— quite romantic names. 
She called them the Montmorencys when she did not call 
them the Large Family. The fat, fair baby with the lace 
cap was Ethelberta Beauchamp Montmorency; the next 
baby was Violet Cholmondeley JNIontmorency ; the little 
boy who could just stagger and who had such round 
legs was Sydney Cecil Vivian Montmorency; and then 
came Lilian Evangeline ]Maud Marion, Rosalind Gladys, 
Guy Clarence, Veronica Eustacia, and Claude Harold 

One evening a very funny thing happened — though, 
perhaps, in one sense it was not a funny thing at all. 

Several of the Montmorencys were evidently going to 
a children's party, and just as Sara was about to pass the 
door they were crossing the pavement to get into the car- 
riage which was waiting for them. Veronica Eustacia and 
Rosalind Gladys, in white-lace frocks and lovely sashes, 
had just got in, and Guy Clarence, aged five, was follow- 
ing them. He was such a pretty fellow and had such rosy 
cheeks and blue eyes, and such a darling little round head 
covered with curls, that Sara forgot her basket and shabby 
cloak altogether— in fact, forgot everything but that she 


wanted to look at him for a moment. So she paused and 

It was Christmas time, and the Large Family had been 
hearing many stories about children who were poor and 
had no mammas and papas to fill their stockings and 
take them to the pantomime — children who were, in fact, 
cold and thinly clad and hungry. In the stories, kind 
people — sometimes little boys and girls with tender hearts 
— invariably saw the poor children and gave them money 
or rich gifts, or took them home to beautiful dinners. Guy 
Clarence had been affected to tears that very afternoon 
by the reading of such a story, and he had burned with a 
desire to find such a poor child and give her a certain six- 
pence he possessed, and thus provide for her for life. An 
entire sixpence, he was sure, would mean affluence for ever- 
more. As he crossed the strip of red carpet laid across 
the pavement from the door to the carriage, he had this 
very sixpence in the pocket of his very short man-o'-war 
trousers. And just as Rosalind Gladys got into the vehi- 
cle and jumped on to the seat in order to feel the cushions 
spring under her, he saw Sara standing on the wet pave- 
ment in her shabby frock and hat, with her old basket on 
her arm, looking at him hungrily. 

He thought that her eyes looked hungiy because she 
had perhaps had nothing to eat for a long time. He did 
not know that they looked so because she was hungry for 
the warm, merry life his home held and his rosy face spoke 
of, and that she had a hungry wish to snatch him in her 
arms and kiss him. He only knew that she had big eyes 


and a thin face and thin legs and a common basket and poor 
clothes. So he put his hand in his pocket and found his 
sixpence and walked up to her benignly. 

" Here, poor little girl," he said. " Here is a sixjjence. 
I will give it to you." 

Sara started, and all at once realized that she looked ex- 
actly like poor children she had seen, in her better days, 
waiting on the pavement to watch her as she got out of her 
brougham. And she had given them pennies many a time. 
Her face went red and then it went pale, and for a second 
she felt as if she could not take the dear little sixpence. 

"Oh, no!" she said. "Oh, no, thank you; I must n't 
take it, indeed! " 

Her voice was so unlike an ordinary street child's voice 
and her manner was so like the manner of a well-bred little 
person that Veronica Eustacia (whose real name was 
Janet) and Rosalind Gladys (who was really called Nora) 
leaned forward to listen. 

But Guy Clarence was not to be thwarted in his benevo- 
lence. He thrust the sixpence into her hand. 

"Yes, you must take it, poor little girl!" he insisted 
stoutly. " You can buy things to eat with it. It is a whole 

There was something so honest and kind in his face, and 
he looked so likely to be heartbrokenly disappointed if she 
did not take it, that Sara knew she must not refuse him. 
To be as proud as that would be a cruel thing. So she 
actually put her pride in her pocket, though it must be 
admitted her cheeks burned. 


" Thank you," she said. " You are a kind, kind Httle 
darhng thing." And as he scrambled joyfully into the 
carriage she went away, trying to smile, though she caught 
her breath quickly and her eyes were shining through a 
mist. She had known that she looked odd and shabby, 
but until now she had not known that she might be taken 
for a beggar. 

As the Large Family's carriage drove away, the chil- 
dren inside it were talking with interested excitement. 

"Oh, Donald" (this was Guy Clarence's name), Janet 
exclaimed alarmedly, " why did you offer that little 
girl your sixpence? I 'm sure she is not a beggar! " 

"She did n't speak like a beggar!" cried Nora; "and 
her face did n't really look like a beggar's face!" 

" Besides, she did n't beg," said Janet. " I was so afraid 
she might be angry with you. You know, it makes people 
angry to be taken for beggars when they are not beggars." 

" She was n't angry," said Donald, a trifle dismayed, but 
still firm. "She laughed a little, and she said I was a kind, 
kind little darling thing. And I was ! "—stoutly. " It was 
my whole sixpence." 

Janet and Nora exchanged glances. 

" A beggar girl would never have said that," decided 
Janet. " She would have said, ' Thank yer kindly, little 
gentleman — thank yer, sir'; and perhaps she would have 
bobbed a courtesy." 

Sara knew nothing about the fact, but from that time 
the Large Family was as profoundly interested in her as 
she was in it. Faces used to appear at the nursery windows 


when she passed, and many discussions concerning her 
were held round the fire. 

" She is a kind of servant at the seminary," Janet said. 
" I don't beheve she belongs to anybody. I believe she is 
an orphan. But she is not a beggar, however shabby she 

And afterward she was called by all of them, " The- 
little-girl-who-is-not-a-beggar," which was, of course, 
rather a long name, and sounded very funny sometimes 
when the youngest ones said it in a hurry. 

Sara managed to bore a hole in the sixpence and hung 
it on an old bit of narrow ribbon round her neck. Her 
aifection for the Large Family increased— as, indeed, her 
affection for everything she could love increased. She 
grew fonder and fonder of Becky, and she used to look 
forward to the two mornings a week when she went into 
the school-room to give the little ones their French lesson. 
Her small pupils loved her, and strove with each other for 
the privilege of standing close to her and insinuating their 
small hands into hers. It fed her hungry heart to feel them 
nestling up to her. She made such friends with the spar- 
rows that when she stood upon the table, put her head and 
shoulders out of the attic window, and chirped, she heard 
almost immediately a flutter of wings and answering twit- 
ters, and a little flock of dingy town birds appeared and 
alighted on the slates to talk to her and make much of the 
crumbs she scattered. With ^lelchisedec she had become 
so intimate that he actually brought INIrs. JMelchisedec with 
him sometimes, and now and then one or two of his chil- 


dren. She used to talk to him, and, somehow, he looked 
quite as if he understood. 

There had grown in her mind rather a strange feeling 
about Emily, who always sat and looked on at everything. 
It arose in one of her moments of great desolateness. She 
would have liked to believe or pretend to believe that Emily 
understood and sympathized with her. She did not like to 
own to herself that her only companion could feel and hear 
nothing. She used to put her in a chair sometimes and 
sit opposite to her on the old red footstool, and stare and 
pretend about her until her own eyes would grow large 
with something which was almost like fear— particularly 
at night when everything was so still, when the only 
sound in the attic was the occasional sudden scurry and 
squeak of Melchisedec's family in the wall. One of her 
*' pretends " was that Emily was a kind of good witch who 
could protect her. Sometimes, after she had stared at her 
until she was wrought up to the highest pitch of fanciful- 
ness, she would ask her questions and find herself almost 
feeling as if she would presently answer. But she never 

" As to answering, though," said Sara, trying to console 
herself, " I don't answer very often. I never answer when 
I can help it. When people are insulting you, there is 
nothing so good for them as not to say a word— just to 
look at them and think. Miss INIinchin turns pale with 
rage when I do it. Miss Amelia looks frightened, and so 
do the girls. When you will not fly into a passion people 
know you are stronger than they are, because you are 


strong enough to hold in your rage, and they are not, and 
they say stupid things they wish they had n't said after- 
ward. There 's nothing so strong as rage, except what 
makes you hold it in— that 's stronger. It 's a good thing 
not to answer your enemies. I scarcely ever do. Perhaps 
Emily is more like me than I am like myself. Perhaps she 
would rather not answer her friends, even. She keeps it all 
in her heart." 

But though she tried to satisfy herself with these argu- 
ments, she did not find it easy. When, after a long, hard 
day, in which she had been sent here and there, sometimes 
on long errands through wind and cold and rain, she came 
in wet and hungry, and was sent out again because nobody 
chose to remember that she was only a child, and that 
her slim legs might be tired and her small body might 
be chilled; when she had been given only harsh words and 
cold, slighting looks for thanks; when the cook had been 
vulgar and insolent; when Miss Minchin had been in her 
worst mood, and when she had seen the girls sneering 
among themselves at her shabbiness — then she was not 
always able to comfort her sore, proud, desolate heart with 
fancies when Emily merely sat upright in her old chair 
and stared. 

One of these nights, when she came up to the attic cold 
and hungry, with a tempest raging in her young breast, 
Emily's stare seemed so vacant, her sawdust legs and arms 
so inexpressive, that Sara lost all control over herself. 
There was nobody but Emily— no one in the world. And 
there she sat. 


" I shall die presently," she said at first. 

Emily simply stared. 

" I can't bear this," said the poor child, trembling. " I 
know I shall die. I 'm cold; I 'm wet; I 'm starving to 
death. I 've walked a thousand miles to-day, and they 
have done nothing but scold me from morning until night. 
And because I could not find that last thing the cook sent 
me for, they would not give me any supper. Some men 
laughed at me because my old shoes made me slip down in 
the mud. I 'm covered with mud now. And they laughed. 
Do you hear?" 

She looked at the staring glass eyes and complacent face, 
and suddenly a sort of heartbroken rage seized her. She 
lifted her little savage hand and knocked Emily off the 
chair, bursting into a passion of sobbing, — Sara who never 

" You are nothing but a doll!'' she cried; " nothing but 
a doll — doll — doll! You care for nothing. You are 
stuffed with sawdust. You never had a heart. Nothing 
could ever make you feel. You are a doll!" 

Emily lay on the floor, with her legs ignominiously 
doubled up over her head, and a new flat place on the end 
of her nose; but she was calm, even dignified. Sara hid 
her face in her arms. The rats in the wall began to fight 
and bite each other and squeak and scramble. Melchise- 
dec was chastising some of his family. 

Sara's sobs gradually quieted themselves. It was so un- 
like her to break down that she was surprised at herself. 
After a while she raised her face and looked at Emily, 


who seemed to be gazing at her round the side of one angle, 
and, somehow, by this time actually with a kind of glassy- 
eyed sympathy. Sara bent and picked her up. Remorse 
overtook her. She even smiled at herself a very little 

" You can't help being a doll," she said with a resigned 
sigh, " any more than Lavinia and Jessie can help not hav- 
ing any sense. We are not all made alike. Perhaps you 
do your sawdust best." And she kissed her and shook 
her clothes straight, and put her back upon her chair. 

She had wished very much that some one would take the 
empty house next door. She wished it because of the 
attic window which was so near hers. It seemed as if it 
would be so nice to see it propped open some day and a 
head and shoulders rising out of the square aperture. 

" If it looked a nice head," she thought, " I might begin 
by saying, ' Good morning,' and all sorts of things might 
happen. But, of course, it 's not really likely that any one 
but under servants would sleep there." 

One morning, on turning the corner of the square after 
a visit to the grocer's, the butcher's, and the baker's, she saw, 
to her great delight, that during her rather prolonged ab- 
sence, a van full of furniture had stopped before the next 
house, the front doors were thrown open, and men in shirt 
sleeves were going in and out carrying heavy packages and 
pieces of furniture. 

" It 's taken! " she said. " It really is taken! Oh, I do 
hope a nice head will look out of the attic window! " 

She would almost have liked to join the group of loi- 


terers who had stopped on the pavement to watch the 
things carried in. She had an idea that if she could see 
some of the furniture she could guess something about the 
people it belonged to. 

" Miss ^linchin's tables and chairs are just like her," she 
thought; "I remember thinking that the first minute I 
saw her, even though I was so little. I told papa after- 
ward, and he laughed and said it was true. I am sure the 
Large Family have fat, comfortable arm-chairs and sofas, 
and I can see that their red-flowery wall-paper is exactly 
like them. It 's warm and cheerful and kind-looking and 

She was sent out for parsley to the greengrocer's later 
in the day, and when she came up the area steps her heart 
gave quite a quick beat of recognition. Several pieces of 
furniture had been set out of the van upon the pavement. 
There was a beautiful table of elaborately wrought teak- 
wood, and some chairs, and a screen covered with rich Ori- 
ental embroidery. The sight of them gave her a weird, 
homesick feeling. She had seen things so like them in 
India. One of the things JNIiss Minchin had taken from 
her was a carved teak- wood desk her father had sent her. 

" They are beautiful things," she said; "they look as if 
they ought to belong to a nice person. All the things look 
rather grand. I suppose it is a rich family." 

The vans of furniture came and were unloaded and gave 
place to others all the day. Several times it so happened 
that Sara had an opportunity of seeing things carried in. 
It became plain that she had been right in guessing that the 


new-comers were people of large means. All the furniture 
was rich and beautiful, and a great deal of it was Oriental. 
Wonderful rugs and draperies and ornaments were taken 
from the vans, many pictures, and books enough for a li- 
brary. Among other things there was a superb god 
Buddha in a splendid shrine. 

" Some one in the family must have been in India," Sara 
thought. " They have got used to Indian things and like 
them. I am glad. I shall feel as if they were friends, even 
if a head never looks out of the attic window." 

When she was taking in the evening's milk for the cook 
(there was really no odd job she was not called upon to 
do) , she saw something occur which made the situation 
more interesting than ever. The handsome, rosy man who 
was the father of the Large Family walked across the 
square in the most matter-of-fact manner, and ran up the 
steps of the next-door house. He ran up them as if he felt 
quite at home and expected to run up and down them 
many a time in the future. He stayed inside quite a long 
time, and several times came out and gave directions to the 
workmen, as if he had a right to do so. It was quite certain 
that he was in some intimate way connected with the new- 
comers and was acting for them. 

" If the new people have children," Sara speculated, 
" the Large Family children will be sure to come and play 
with them, and they might come up into the attic just for 

At night, after her work was done, Becky came in to see 
her fellow-prisoner and bring her news. 


" It 's a' Nindian gentleman that 's comin' to live next 
door, miss," she said. " I don't know whether he 's a black 
gentleman or not, but he 's a Nindian one. He 's very rich, 
an' he 's ill, an' the gentleman of the Large Family is his 
lawyer. He 's had a lot of trouble, an' it 's made him ill an' 
low in his mind. He worships idols, miss. He 's an 'eathen 
an' bows down to wood an' stone. I seen a' idol bein' car- 
ried in for him to worship. Somebody had oughter send 
him a trac'. You can get a trac' for a penny." 

Sara laughed a little. 

" I don't believe he worships that idol," she said; "some 
people like to keep them to look at because they are in- 
teresting. My papa had a beautiful one, and he did not 
worship it." 

But Becky was rather inclined to prefer to believe that 
the new neighbor was " an 'eathen." It sounded so much 
more romantic than that he should merely be the ordinary 
kind of gentleman who went to church with a prayer-book. 
She sat and talked long that night of what he would be like, 
of what his wife would be like if he had one, and of what 
his children would be like if they had children. Sara saw 
that privately she could not help hoping very much that 
they would all be black, and would wear turbans, and, 
above all, that— like their parent — they would all be 
" 'eathens." 

" I never lived next door to no 'eathens, miss," she said; 
" I should like to see what sort o' ways they 'd have." 

It was several weeks before her curiosity was satisfied, 
and then it was revealed that the new occupant had neither 


wife nor children. He was a solitary man with no family 
at all, and it was evident that he was shattered in health 
and unhappy in mind. 

A carriage drove up one day and stopped before the 
house. When the footman dismounted from the box and 
opened the door the gentleman who was the father of the 
Large Family got out first. After him there descended 
a nurse in uniform, then came down the steps two men- 
servants. They came to assist their master, who, when he 
was helped out of the carriage, proved to be a man with a 
haggard, distressed face, and a skeleton body wrapped in 
furs. He was carried up the steps, and the head of the 
Large Family went with him, looking very anxious. 
Shortly afterward a doctor's carriage arrived, and the doc- 
tor went in — plainly to take care of him. 

" There is such a yellow gentleman next door, Sara," 
Lottie whispered at the French class afterward. " Do you 
think he is a Chinee? The geography says the Chinee men 
are yellow." 

"No, he is not Chinese," Sara whispered back; "he is 
very ill. Go on with your exercise, Lottie. ' Non, mon- 
sieur. Je nai pas le canif cle mon oncle.'" 

That was the beginning of the story of the Indian gen- 



THERE were fine sunsets even in the square, some- 
times. One could only see parts of them, how- 
ever, between the chimneys and over the roofs. 
From the kitchen windows one could not see them at all, 
and could only guess that they were going on because the 
bricks looked warm and the air rosy or yellow for a while, 
or perhaps one saw a blazing glow strike a particular pane 
of glass somewhere. There was, however, one place from 
which one could see all the splendor of them: the piles of 
red or gold clouds in the west; or the purple ones edged 
with dazzling brightness ; or the little fleecy, floating ones, 
tinged with rose-color and looking like flights of pink 
doves scurrying across the blue in a great hurry if there 
was a wind. The place where one could see all this, and 
seem at the same time to breathe a purer air, was, of course, 
the attic window. When the square suddenly seemed to 
begin to glow in an enchanted way and look wonderful 
in spite of its sooty trees and railings, Sara knew some- 
thing was going on in the sky ; and when it was at all pos- 
sible to leave the kitchen without being missed or called 
back, she invariably stole away and crept up the flights of 


stairs, and, climbing on the old table, got her head and 
body as far out of the window as possible. When she had 
accomplished this, she alwa3''s drew a long breath and 
looked all round her. It used to seem as if she had all the 
sky and the world to herself. No one else ever looked out 
of the other attics. Generally the skylights were closed; 
but even if they were propped open to admit air, no one 
seemed to come near them. And there Sara would stand, 
sometimes turning her face upward to the blue which 
seemed so friendly and near, — just like a lovely vaulted 
ceiling, — sometimes watching the west and all the wonder- 
ful things that happened there: the clouds melting or drift- 
ing or waiting softly to be changed pink or crimson or 
snow-white or purple or pale dove-gray. Sometimes they 
made islands or great mountains enclosing lakes of deep 
turquoise-blue, or liquid amber, or chrysoprase-green ; 
sometimes dark headlands jutted into strange, lost seas; 
sometimes slender strips of wonderful lands joined other 
wonderful lands together. There were places where it 
seemed that one could run or climb or stand and wait to see 
what next was coming— until, perhaps, as it all melted, one 
could float away. At least it seemed so to Sara, and no- 
thing had ever been quite so beautiful to her as the things 
she saw as she stood on the table— her body half out of the 
skylight — the sparrows twittering with sunset softness on 
the slates. The sparrows always seemed to her to twitter 
with a sort of subdued softness just when these marvels 
were going on. 

There was such a sunset as this a few days after the In- 


dian gentleman was brought to his new home; and, as it 
fortunately happened that the afternoon's work was done 
in the kitchen and nobody had ordered her to go anywhere 
or perform any task, Sara found it easier than usual to slip 
away and go up-stairs. 

She mounted her table and stood looking out. It was 
a wonderful moment. There were floods of molten gold 
covering the west, as if a glorious tide was sweeping over 
the world. A deep, rich yellow light filled the air ; the birds 
flying across the tops of the houses showed quite black 
against it. 

" It 's a Splendid one," said Sara, softly, to herself. " It 
makes me feel almost afraid — as if something strange was 
just going to happen. The Splendid ones always make 
me feel like that." 

She suddenly turned her head because she heard a sound 
a few yards away from her. It was an odd sound like a 
queer little squeaky chattering. It came from the win- 
dow of the next attic. Some one had come to look at the 
sunset as she had. There was a head and part of a body 
emerging from the skylight, but it was not the head or 
body of a little girl or a housemaid ; it was the picturesque 
white-swathed form and dark-faced, gleaming-eyed, 
white-turbaned head of a native Indian man-servant,— "a 
Lascar," Sara said to herself quickly,— and the sound she 
had heard came from a small monkey he held in his arms 
as if he were fond of it, and which was snuggling and 
chattering against his breast. 

As Sara looked toward him he looked toward her. The 


first thing she thought was that his dark face looked sor- 
rowful and homesick. She felt absolutely sure he had 
come up to look at the sun, because he had seen it so seldom 
in England that he longed for a sight of it. She looked at 
him interestedly for a second, and then smiled across the 
slates. She had learned to know how comforting a smile, 
even from a stranger, may be. 

Hers was evidently a pleasure to him. His whole ex- 
pression altered, and he showed such gleaming white 
teeth as he smiled back that it was as if a light had been 
illuminated in his dusky face. The friendly look in Sara's 
eyes was always very effective when people felt tired or 

It was perhaps in making his salute to her that he loos- 
ened his hold on the monkey. He was an impish monkey 
and always ready for adventure, and it is probable that the 
sight of a little girl excited him. He suddenly broke loose, 
jumped on to the slates, ran across them chattering, and 
actually leaped on to Sara's shoulder, and from there 
down into her attic room. It made her laugh and de- 
lighted her; but she knew he must be restored to his mas- 
ter, — if the Lascar was his master, — and she wondered how 
this was to be done. Would he let her catch him, or would 
he be naughty and refuse to be caught, and perhaps get 
away and run off over the roofs and be lost ? That would 
not do at all. Perhaps he belonged to the Indian gentle- 
man, and the poor man was fond of him. 

She turned to the Lascar, feeling glad that she remem- 
bered still some of the Hindustani she had learned when 


she lived with her father. She could make the man un- 
derstand. She spoke to him in the language he knew. 

" Will he let me catch him? " she asked. 

She thought she had never seen more surprise and de- 
light than the dark face expressed when she spoke in the 
familiar tongue. The truth was that the poor fellow felt 
as if his gods had intervened, and the kind little voice came 
from heaven itself. At once Sara saw that he had been 
accustomed to European children. He poured forth a 
flood of respectful thanks. He was the servant of Missee 
Sahib. The monkey was a good monkey and would not 
bite; but, unfortunately, he was difficult to catch. He 
would flee from one spot to another, like the lightning. 
He was disobedient, though not evil. Ram Dass knew 
him as if he were his child, and Ram Dass he would some- 
times obey, but not always. If Missee Sahib would per- 
mit Ram Dass, he himself could cross the roof to her room, 
enter the windows, and regain the unworthy little animal. 
But he was evidently afraid Sara might think he was tak- 
ing a great liberty and perhaps would not let him come. 

But Sara gave him leave at once. 

" Can you get across? " she inquired. 

" In a moment," he answered her. 

"Then come," she said; "he is flying from side to side 
of the room as if he was frightened." 

Ram Dass slipped through his attic window and crossed 
to hers as steadily and lightly as if he had walked on roofs 
all his life. He slipped through the skylight and dropped 
upon his feet without a sound. Then he turned to Sara 


and salaamed again. The monkey saw him and uttered 
a little scream. Ram Dass hastily took the precaution of 
shutting the skylight, and then went in chase of him. It 
was not a very long chase. The monkey prolonged it a 
few minutes evidently for the mere fun of it, but presently 
he sprang chattering on to Ram Dass's shoulder and sat 
there chattering and clinging to his neck with a weird 
little skinny arm. 

Ram Dass thanked Sara profoundly. She had seen 
that his quick native eyes had taken in at a glance all the 
bare shabbiness of the room, but he spoke to her as if he 
were speaking to the little daughter of a rajah, and pre- 
tended that he observed nothing. He did not presume to 
remain more than a few moments after he had caught the' 
monkey, and those moments were given to further deep 
and grateful obeisance to her in return for her indulgence. 
This little evil one, he said, stroking the monkey, was, in 
truth, not so evil as he seemed, and his master, Avho was ill, 
was sometimes amused by him. He would have been made 
sad if his favorite had run away and been lost. Then he 
salaamed once more and got through the skylight and 
across the slates again with as much agility as the monkey 
himself had displayed. 

When he had gone Sara stood in the middle of her attic 
and thought of many things his face and his manner had 
brought back to her. The sight of his native costume and 
the profound reverence of his manner stirred all her past 
memories. It seemed a strange thing to remember that 
she — the drudge whom the cook had said insulting things 


to an hour ago— had only a few years ago been surrounded 
by people who all treated her as Ram Dass had treated her ; 
who salaamed when she went by, whose foreheads almost 
touched the ground when she spoke to them, who were her 
servants and her slaves. It was like a sort of dream. It 
was all over, and it could never come back. It certainly 
seemed that there was no way in which any change could 
take place. She knew what Miss Minchin intended that 
her future should be. So long as she was too young to be 
used as a regular teacher, she would be used as an errand 
girl and servant and yet expected to remember what she 
had learned and in some mysterious way to learn more. 
The greater number of her evenings she was supposed to 
spend at study, and at various indefinite intervals she was 
examined and knew she would have been severely admon- 
ished if she had not advanced as was expected of her. The 
truth, indeed, was that Miss Minchin knew that she was 
too anxious to learn to require teachers. Give her books, 
and she would devour them and end by knowing them by 
heart. She might be trusted to be equal to teaching a 
good deal in the course of a few years. This was what 
would happen : when she was older she would be expected 
to drudge in the school-room as she drudged now in various 
parts of the house ; they would be obliged to give her more 
respectable clothes, but they would be sure to be plain and 
ugly and to make her look somehow like a servant. That 
was all there seemed to be to look forward to, and Sara 
stood quite still for several minutes and thought it over. 
Then a thought came back to her which made the color 


rise in her cheek and a spark hght itself in her eyes. She 
straightened her thin httle body and hfted her head. 

" Whatever comes," she said, " cannot alter one thing. 
If I am a princess in rags and tatters, I can be a princess 
inside. It would be easy to be a princess if I were dressed 
in cloth of gold, but it is a great deal more of a triumph 
to be one all the time when no one knows it. There was 
Marie Antoinette when she was in prison and her throne 
was gone and she had only a black gown on, and her hair 
was white, and they insulted her and called her Widow 
Capet. She was a great deal more like a queen then than 
when she was so gay and everything was so grand. I like 
her best then. Those howling mobs of people did not 
frighten her. She was stronger than they were, even when 
they cut her head off." 

This was not a new thought, but quite an old one, by this 
time. It had consoled her through many a bitter day, and 
she had gone about the house with an expression in her 
face which Miss Minchin could not understand and which 
was a source of great annoyance to her, as it seemed as if 
the child were mentally living a life which held her above 
the rest of the world. It was as if she scarcely heard the 
rude and acid things said to her ; or, if she heard them, did 
not care for them at all. Sometimes, when she was in the 
midst of some harsh, domineering speech, Miss Minchin 
would find the still, unchildish eyes fixed upon her with 
something like a proud smile in them. At such times she 
did not know that Sara was saying to herself : 

" You don't know that you are saying these things to a 


princess, and that if I chose I could wave my hand and 
order you to execution. I only spare you because I am 
a princess, and you are a poor, stupid, unkind, vulgar 
old thing, and don't know any better." 

This used to interest and amuse her more than anything 
else; and queer and fanciful as it was, she found comfort 
in it and it was a good thing for her. While the thought 
held possession of her, she could not be made rude and ma- 
licious by the rudeness and malice of those about her. 

" A princess must be polite," she said to herself. 

And so when the servants, taking their tone from their 
mistress, were insolent and ordered her about, she would 
hold her head erect and reply to them with a quaint civility 
which often made them stare at her. 

" She 's got more airs and graces than if she come from 
Buckingham Palace, that young one," said the cook, 
chuckling a little sometimes; " I lose my temper with her 
often enough, but I will say she never forgets her man- 
ners. ' If you please, cook; ' ' Will you be so kind, cook? ' 
'I beg your pardon, cook;' 'May I trouble you, cook?' 
She drops 'em about the kitchen as if they was nothing." 

The morning after the interview with Ram Dass and his 
monkey, Sara was in the school-room with her small j^upils. 
Having finished giving them their lessons, she was put- 
ting the French exercise-books together and thinking, as 
she did it, of the various things royal personages in disguise 
were called upon to do: Alfred the Great, for instance, 
burning the cakes and getting his ears boxed by the wife 
of the neatherd. How frightened she must have been 


when she found out what she had done. If Miss Minchin 
should find out that she— Sara, whose toes were almost 
sticking out of her boots — was a princess — a real one! 
The look in her eyes was exactly the look which Miss Min- 
chin most disliked. She would not have it; she was quite 
near her and was so enraged that she actually flew at her 
and boxed her ears — exactly as the neatherd's wife had 
boxed King Alfred's. It made Sara start. She wakened 
from her dream at the shock, and, catching her breath, 
stood still a second. Then, not knowing she was going to 
do it, she broke into a little laugh. 

" What are you laughing at, you bold, impudent child? " 
Miss Minchin exclaimed. 

It took Sara a few seconds to control herself sufficiently 
to remember that she was a princess. Her cheeks were red 
and smarting from the blows she had received. 

"I was thinking," she answered. 

" Beg my pardon immediately," said Miss Minchin. 

Sara hesitated a second before she rephed. 

" I will beg your pardon for laughing, if it was rude," 
she said then ; " but I won't beg your pardon for thinking." 

"What were you thinking?" demanded Miss Minchin. 
" How dare you think? What were you thinking? " 

Jessie tittered, and she and Lavinia nudged each other 
in unison. All the girls looked up from their books to 
listen. Really, it always interested them a little when IMiss 
Minchin attacked Sara. Sara always said something 
queer, and never seemed the least bit frightened. She was 


not in the least frightened now, though her boxed ears 
were scarlet and her eyes were as bright as stars. 

" I was thinking," she answered grandly and politely, 
" that you did not know what you were doing." 

"That I did not know what I was doing?" Miss Min- 
chin fairly gasped. 

" Yes," said Sara, " and I was thinking what would 
happen if I were a princess and you boxed my ears— what 
I should do to you. And I was thinking that if I were 
one, you would never dare to do it, whatever I said or did. 
And I was thinking how surprised and frightened you 
w^ould be if you suddenly found out — " 

She had the imagined future so clearly before her eyes 
that she spoke in a manner which had an effect even upon 
Miss Minchin. It almost seemed for the moment to her 
narrow, unimaginative mind that there must be some real 
power hidden behind this candid daring. 

"What?" she exclaimed. "Found out what?" 

" That I really was a princess," said Sara, " and could 
do anything— anything I liked." 

Every pair of eyes in the room widened to its full limit. 
Lavinia leaned forward on her seat to look. 

" Go to your room," cried Miss INIinchin, breathlessly, 
"this instant! Leave the school-room! Attend to your 
lessons, young ladies!" 

Sara made a little bow. 

" Excuse me for laughing if it was impolite," she said, 
and walked out of the room, leaving Miss Minchin strug- 


gling with her rage, and the girls whispering over their 

" Did you see her? Did you see how queer she looked? " 
Jessie broke out. " I should n't be at all surprised if she 
did turn out to be something. Suppose she should! " 



WHEN one lives in a row of houses, it is in- 
teresting to think of the things which are being 
done and said on the other side of the wall of 
the very rooms one is hving in. Sara was fond of amus- 
ing herself by trying to imagine the things hidden by the 
wall which divided the Select Seminary from the Indian 
gentleman's house. She knew that the school-room was 
next to the Indian gentleman's study, and she hoped that 
the wall was thick so that the noise made sometimes after 
lesson hours would not disturb him. 

" I am growing quite fond of him," she said to Ermen- 
garde; "I should not like him to be disturbed. I have 
adopted him for a friend. You can do that with people 
you never speak to at all. You can just watch them, and 
think about them and be sorry for them, until they seem 
almost like relations. I 'm quite anxious sometimes when 
I see the doctor call twice a day." 

" I have very few relations," said Ermengarde, reflec- 
tively, "and I 'm very glad of it. I don't like those I 
have. My two aunts are always saying, 'Dear me, Er- 
mengarde ! You are very fat. You should n't eat sweets,' 



and my uncle is always asking me things like, ' When did 
Edward the Third ascend the throne? ' and, ' Who died of 
a surfeit of lampreys ? ' " 

Sara laughed. 

" People you never speak to can't ask you questions like 
that," she said; "and I 'm sure the Indian gentleman 
would n't even if he was quite intimate with you. I am 
fond of him." 

She had become fond of the Large Family because they 
looked happy; but she had become fond of the Indian 
gentleman because he looked unhappy. He had evidently 
not fully recovered from some very severe illness. In the 
kitchen— where, of course, the servants, through some mys- 
terious means, knew everything — there was much discus- 
sion of his case. He was not an Indian gentleman really, 
but an Englishman who had lived in India. He had met 
with great misfortunes which had for a time so imperilled 
his whole fortune that he had thought himself ruined and 
disgraced forever. The shock had been so great that he 
had almost died of brain-fever ; and ever since he had been 
shattered in health, though his fortunes had changed and 
all his possessions had been restored to him. His trouble 
and peril had been connected with mines. 

"And mines with diamonds in 'em!" said the cook. 
"No savin's of mine never goes into no mines — particular 
diamond ones" — with a side glance at Sara. "We all 
know somethin' of tliem" 

" He felt as my papa felt," Sara thought. " He was ill 
as my papa was ; but he did not die." 


So her heart was more drawn to him than before. When 
she was sent out at night she used sometimes to feel quite 
glad, because there was always a chance that the curtains 
of the house next door might not yet be closed and she 
could look into the warm room and see her adopted friend. 
When no one was about she used sometimes to stop, and, 
holding to the iron railings, wish him good night as if he 
could hear her. 

" Perhaps you can feel if you can't hear," was her fancy. 
" Perhaps kind thoughts reach people somehow, even 
through windows and doors and walls. Perhaps you feel 
a little warm and comforted, and don't know why, when I 
am standing here in the cold and hoping you will get well 
and happy again. I am so sorry for you," she would whis- 
per in an intense little voice. " I wish you had a ' Little 
Missus ' who could pet you as I used to pet papa when he 
had a headache. I should hke to be your ' Little ^lissus ' 
myself, poor dear! Good night— good night. God bless 

She would go away, feeling quite comforted and a little 
warmer herself. Her sympathy was so strong that it 
seemed as if it must reach him somehow as he sat alone in 
his arm-chair by the fire, nearly always in a great dressing- 
gown, and nearly always with his forehead resting in his 
hand as he gazed hopelessly into the fire. He looked to 
Sara like a man who had a trouble on his mind still, not 
merely like one whose troubles lay all in the past. 

" He always seems as if he were thinking of something 
that hurts him now," she said to herself; "but he has got 


his money back and he will get over his brain-fever in time, 
so he ought not to look like that. I wonder if there is 
something else." 

If there was something else, — something even servants 
did not hear of,— she could not help believing that the fa- 
ther of the Large Family knew it— the gentleman she 
called Mr. Montmorency. Mr. Montmorency went to see 
him often, and Mrs. Montmorency and all the little Mont- 
morencys went, too, though less often. He seemed par- 
ticularly fond of the two elder little girls— the Janet and 
Nora who had been so alarmed when their small brother 
Donald had given Sara his sixpence. He had, in fact, a 
very tender place in his heart for all children, and particu- 
larly for little girls. Janet and Nora were as fond of him 
as he was of them, and looked forward with the greatest 
pleasure to the afternoons when they were allowed to cross 
the square and make their well-behaved little visits to him. 
They were extremely decorous little visits because he was 
an invalid. 

" He is a poor thing," said Janet, " and he says we cheer 
him up. We try to cheer him up very quietly." 

Janet w^as the head of the family, and kept the rest of 
it in order. It was she who decided when it was discreet 
to ask the Indian gentleman to tell stories about India, and 
it was she who saw when he was tired and it was the time to 
steal quietly away and tell Ram Dass to go to him. They 
were very fond of Ram Dass. He could have told any 
number of stories if he had been able to speak anything but 
Hindustani. The Indian gentleman's real name was Mr. 


Carrisford, and Janet told ^Ir. Carrisford about the 
encounter with the Httle-girl-who-was-not-a-beggar. He 
was very much interested, and all the more so when he 
heard from Ram Dass of the adventure of the monkey on 
the roof. Ram Dass made for him a very clear picture 
of the attic and its desolateness— of the bare floor and 
broken plaster, the rusty, empty grate, and the hard, nar- 
row bed. 

"Carmichael," he said to the father of the Large Family, 
after he had heard this description; "I wonder how many 
of the attics in this square are like that one, and how many 
wretched little servant girls sleep on such beds, while I toss 
on my down pillows, loaded and harassed by wealth that is, 
most of it — not mine." 

" My dear fellow," Mr. Carmichael answered cheerily, 
"the sooner you cease tormenting yourself the better it 
will be for you. If you possessed all the wealth of all the 
Indies, you could not set right all the discomforts in the 
world, and if you began to refurnish all the attics in this 
square, there would still remain all the attics in all the 
other squares and streets to put in order. And there you 

Mr. Carrisford sat and bit his nails as he looked into the 
glowing bed of coals in the grate. 

"Do you suppose," he said slowly, after a pause— "do 
you think it is possible that the other child— the child I 
never cease thinking of, I believe— could be— could pos- 
sibly be reduced to any such condition as the poor little 
soul next door?" 


Mr. Carmichael looked at him uneasily. He knew that 
the worst thing the man could do for himself, for his rea- 
son and his health, was to begin to think in this particular 
way of this particular subject. 

" If the child at Madame Pascal's school in Paris was 
the one you are in search of," he answered soothingly, 
" she would seem to be in the hands of people who can 
afford to take care of her. They adopted her because she 
had been the favorite companion of their little daughter 
who died. They had no other children, and Madame Pas- 
cal said that they were extremely well-to-do Russians." 

" And the wretched woman actually did not know where 
they had taken her!" exclaimed Mr. Carrisford. 

Mr. Carmichael shrugged his shoulders. 

" She was a shrewd, worldly Frenchwoman, and was 
evidently only too glad to get the child so comfortably off 
her hands when the father's death left her totally unpro- 
vided for. Women of her type do not trouble themselves 
about the futures of children who might prove burdens. 
The adopted parents apparently disappeared and left no 

" But you say 'if the child was the one I am in search 
of. You say ' if.' We are not sure. There was a differ- 
ence in the name." 

" Madame Pascal pronounced it as if it were Carew in- 
stead of Crewe, — but that might be merely a matter of 
pronunciation. The circumstances were curiously simi- 
lar. An English officer in India had placed his mother- 
less little girl at the school. He had died suddenly after 


losing his fortune." JNIr. Carmichael paused a moment, as 
if a new thought had occurred to him. " Are you sure the 
child was left at a school in Paris? Are you sure it was 

"My dear fellow," broke forth Carrisford, with rest- 
less bitterness, " I am sure of nothing. I never saw either 
the child or her mother. Ralph Crewe and I loved each 
other as boys, but we had not met since our school-days, 
until we met in India. I was absorbed in the magnificent 
promise of the mines. He became absorbed, too. The 
whole thing was so huge and glittering that we half lost 
our heads. When we met we scarcely spoke of anything 
else. I only knew that the child had been sent to school 
somewhere. I do not even remember, now, Jiow I knew it." 

He was beginning to be excited. He alwaj^s became 
excited when his still weakened brain was stirred by memo- 
ries of the catastrophes of the past. 

Mr. Carmichael watched him anxiously. It was neces- 
sary to ask some questions, but they must be put quietly 
and with caution. 

" But you had reason to think the school was in Paris? " 

" Yes," was the answer, " because her mother was a 
Frenchwoman, and I had heard that she wished her child 
to be educated in Paris. It seemed only likely that she 
would be there." 

" Yes," Mr. Carmichael said, " it seems more than prob- 

The Indian gentleman leaned forward and struck the 
table with a long, wasted hand. 


" Carmichael," he said, " I jnust find her. If she is ahve, 
she is somewhere. If she is friendless and penniless, it 
is through my fault. How is a man to get back his nerve 
with a thing like that on his mind ? This sudden change of 
luck at the mines has made realities of all our most fantas- 
tic dreams, and poor Crewe's child may be begging in the 

"No, no," said Carmichael. "Try to be calm. Con- 
sole yourself with the fact that when she is found you have 
a fortune to hand over to her." 

" Why was I not man enough to stand my ground when 
things looked black?" Carrisford groaned in petulant 
misery. " I believe I should have stood my ground if I 
had not been responsible for other people's money as well 
as my own. Poor Crewe had put into the scheme every 
penny that he owned. He trusted me— he loved me. And 
he died thinking I had ruined him— I— Tom Carrisford, 
who played cricket at Eton with him. What a villain he 
must have thought me!" 

" Don't reproach yourself so bitterly." 

" I don't reproach myself because the speculation threat- 
ened to fail— I reproach myself for losing my courage. I 
ran away like a swindler and a thief, because I could not 
face my best friend and tell him I had ruined him and his 

The good-hearted father of the Large Family put his 
hand on his shoulder comfortingly. 

" You ran away because 3^our brain had given way under 
the strain of mental torture," he said. " You were half de- 


lirioiis already. If you had not been you would have 
stayed and fought it out. You were in a hospital, strapped 
down in bed, raving with brain-fever, two days after you 
left the place. Remember that." 

Carrisford dropped his forehead in his hands. 

"Good God! Yes," he said. "I was driven mad with 
dread and horror. I had not slept for weeks. The night 
I staggered out of my house all the air seemed full of 
hideous things mocking and mouthing at me." 

" That is explanation enough in itself," said Mr. Car- 
michael. " How could a man on the verge of brain-fever 
judge sanely!" 

Carrisford shook his drooping head. 

" And when I returned to consciousness poor Crewe was 
dead— and buried. And I seemed to remember nothing. 
I did not remember the child for months and months. 
Even when I began to recall her existence everything 
seemed in a sort of haze." 

He stopped a moment and rubbed his forehead. " It 
sometimes seems so now when I try to remember. Surely 
I must sometime have heard Crewe speak of the school she 
was sent to. Don't you think so?" 

" He might not have spoken of it definitely. You never 
seem even to have heard her real name." 

" He used to call her by an odd pet name he had in- 
vented. He called her his ' Little Missus.' But the 
wretched mines drove everything else out of our heads. 
We talked of nothing else. If he spoke of the school, I 
forgot— I forgot. And now I shall never remember." 


"Come, come," said Carmichael. "We shall find her 
j^et. We will continue to search for Madame Pascal's 
good-natured Russians. She seemed to have a vague idea 
that they lived in Moscow. We will take that as a clue. I 
will go to Moscow." 

" If I were able to travel, I would go with you," said 
Carrisford; "but I can only sit here wrapped in furs and 
stare at the fire. And when I look into it I seem to see 
Crewe's gay young face gazing back at me. He looks as 
if he were asking me a question. Sometimes I dream of 
him at night, and he always stands before me and asks the 
same question in words. Can you guess what he says, 

Mr. Carmichael answered him in a rather low voice. 

" Not exactly," he said. 

"He always says, 'Tom, old man— Tom— where is the 
Little Missus?'" He caught at Carmichael's hand and 
clung to it. " I must be able to answer him— I must! " he 
said. " Help me to find her. Help me." 

On the other side of the wall Sara was sitting in her 
garret talking to Melchisedec, who had come out for his 
evening meal. 

" It has been hard to be a princess to-day, Melchisedec," 
she said. " It has been harder than usual. It gets harder 
as the weather grows colder and the streets get more 
sloppy. When Lavinia laughed at my muddy skirt as I 
passed her in the hall, I thought of something to say all 
in a flash— and I only just stopped myself in time. You 


can't sneer back at people like that — if you are a princess. 
But you have to bite your tongue to hold yourself in. I 
bit mine. It was a cold afternoon, Melchisedec. And it 's 
a cold night." 

Quite suddenly she put her black head down in her 
arms, as she often did when she was alone. 

" Oh, papa," she whispered, " what a long time it seems 
since I was your ' Little Missus ' ! " 

This was what happened that day on both sides of the 



THE winter was a wretched one. There were days on 
which Sara tramped through snow when she went 
on her errands; tliere were worse days when the 
snow melted and combined itself with mud to form slush ; 
there were others when the fog was so thick that the lamps 
in the street were lighted all day and London looked as it 
had looked the afternoon, several years ago, when the cab 
had driven through the thoroughfares with Sara tucked up 
on its seat, leaning against her father's shoulder. On such 
days the windows of the house of the Large Family al- 
ways looked delightfully cosey and alluring, and the study 
in which the Indian gentleman sat glowed with warmth 
and rich color. But the attic was dismal beyond words. 
There were no longer sunsets or sunrises to look at, and 
scarcely ever any stars, it seemed to Sara. The clouds 
hung low over the skylight and were either gray or mud- 
color, or dropping heavy rain. At four o'clock in the af- 
ternoon, even when there was no special fog, the daylight 
was at an end. If it was necessary to go to her attic for 
anything, Sara was obliged to light a candle. The women 
in the kitchen were depressed, and that made them more 



ill-tempered than ever. Becky was driven like a little 

" 'T war n't for you, miss," she said hoarsely to Sara one 
night when she had crept into the attic — " 't war n't for you, 
an' the Bastille, an' bein' the prisoner in the next cell, I 
should die. That there does seem real now, does n't it? 
The missus is more like the head jailer every day she lives. 
I can jest see them big keys you say she carries. The cook 
she 's like one of the under- jailers. Tell me some more, 
please, miss— tell me about the subt'ranean passage we 've 
dug under the walls." 

" I '11 tell you something warmer," shivered Sara. " Get 
your coverlet and wrap it round you, and I '11 get mine, 
and we will huddle close together on the bed, and I '11 tell 
you about the tropical forest where the Indian gentleman's 
monkey used to live. When I see him sitting on the table 
near the window and looking out into the street with that 
mournful expression, I always feel sure he is thinking 
about the tropical forest where he used to swing by his 
tail from cocoanut-trees. I wonder who caught him, and if 
he left a family behind who had depended on him for 

"That is warmer, miss," said Becky, gratefully; "but, 
some ways, even the Bastille is sort of heatin' when you 
gets to tellin' about it." 

" That is because it makes you think of something else," 
said Sara, wrapping the coverlet round her until only her 
small dark face was to be seen looking out of it. "I 've 
noticed this. What you have to do with your mind, when 


your body is miserable, is to make it think of something 

"Can you do it, miss?" faltered Becky, regarding her 
with admiring eyes. 

Sara knitted her brows a moment. 

" Sometimes I can and sometimes I can't," she said 
stoutly. " But when I can I 'm all right. And what I be- 
lieve is that we always could— if we practised enough. 
I 've been practising a good deal lately, and it 's beginning 
to be easier than it used to be. When things are horrible— 
just horrible— I think as hard as ever I can of being a prin- 
cess. I say to myself, ' I am a princess, and I am a fairy 
one, and because I am a fairy nothing can hurt me or make 
me uncomfortable.' You don't know how it makes you 
forget,"— with a laugh. 

She had many opportunities of making her mind think 
of something else, and many opportunities of proving to 
herself whether or not she was a princess. But one of the 
strongest tests she was ever put to came on a certain dread- 
ful day which, she often thought afterward, would never 
quite fade out of her memory even in the years to come. 

For several days it had rained continuously ; the streets 
were chilly and sloppy and full of dreary, cold mist ; there 
was mud everywhere,— sticky London mud,— and over 
everything the pall of drizzle and fog. Of course there 
were several long and tiresome errands to be done,— there 
always were on days like this, — and Sara was sent out 
again and again, until her shabby clothes were damp 
through. The absurd old feathers on her forlorn hat were 


more draggled and absurd than ever, and her downtrodden 
shoes were so wet that they could not hold any more water. 
Added to this, she had been deprived of her dinner, be- 
cause Miss Minchin had chosen to punish her. She was 
so cold and hungry and tired that her face began to have 
a pinched look, and now and then some kind-hearted per- 
son passing her in the street glanced at her with sudden 
sympathy. But she did not know that. She hurried on, 
trying to make her mind think of something else. It was 
really very necessary. Her way of doing it was to '* pre- 
tend " and " suppose " with all the strength that was left in 
her. But really this time it was harder than she had ever 
found it, and once or twice she thought it almost made her 
more cold and hungry instead of less so. But she perse- 
vered obstinately, and as the muddy water squelched 
through her broken shoes and the wind seemed trying to 
drag her thin jacket from her, she talked to herself as she 
walked, though she did not speak aloud or even move her 

" Suppose I had dry clothes on," she thought. " Sup- 
pose I had good shoes and a long, thick coat and merino 
stockings and a whole umbrella. And suppose— suppose 
—just when I was near a baker's where they sold hot buns, 
I should find sixpence— which belonged to nobody. Sup- 
pose, if I did, I should go into the shop and buy six of the 
hottest buns and eat them all without stopping." 

Some very odd things happen in this world sometimes. 

It certainly was an odd thing that happened to Sara. 
She had to cross the street just when she was saying this 


to herself. The mud was dreadful— she almost had to 
wade. She picked her way as carefully as she could, but 
she could not save herself much ; only, in picking her way, 
she had to look down at her feet and the mud, and in look- 
ing down — just as she reached the pavement — she saw 
something shining in the gutter. It was actually a piece 
of silver — a tiny piece trodden upon by many feet, but still 
with spirit enough left to shine a little. Not quite a six- 
pence, but the next thing to it — a fourpenny piece. 

In one second it was in her cold little red-and-blue hand. 

"Oh," she gasped, "it is true! It is true!" 

And then, if you will believe me, she looked straight at 
the shop directly facing her. And it was a baker's shop, 
and a cheerful, stout, motherly woman with rosy cheeks was 
putting into the window a tray of delicious newly baked 
hot buns, fresh from the oven— large, plump, shiny buns, 
with currants in them. 

It almost made Sara feel faint for a few seconds— the 
shock, and the sight of the buns, and the delightful odors 
of warm bread floating up through the baker's cellar 

She knew she need not hesitate to use the little piece of 
money. It had evidently been lying in the mud for some 
time, and its owner was completely lost in the stream of 
passing people who crowded and jostled each other all day 

" But I '11 go and ask the baker woman if she has lost 
anything," she said to herself, rather faintly. So she 
crossed the pavement and put her wet foot on the step. As 
she did so she saw something that made her stop. 


It was a little figure more forlorn even than herself— a 
little figure which was not much more than a bundle of rags, 
from which small, bare, red muddy feet peeped out, only 
because the rags with which their owner was trying to cover 
them were not long enough. Above the rags appeared a 
shock head of tangled hair, and a dirty face with big, 
hollow, hungiy eyes. 

Sara knew they were hungry eyes the moment she saw 
them, and she felt a sudden sympathy. 

" This," she said to herself, with a little sigh, " is one of 
the populace — and she is hungrier than I am." 

The child— this "one of the populace "—stared up at 
Sara, and shuffled herself aside a little, so as to give her 
room to pass. She was used to being made to give room to 
everybody. She knew that if a policeman chanced to see 
her he would tell her to " move on." 

Sara clutched her little fourpenny piece and hesitated 
a few seconds. Then she spoke to her. 

"Are you hungry?" she asked. 

The child shuffled herself and her rags a little more. 

" Ain't I jist?" she said in a hoarse voice. " Jist ain't I?" 

"Have n't you had any dinner?" said Sara. 

" No dinner,"— more hoarsely still and with more shuf- 
fling. " Nor yet no bre'fast— nor yet no supper. No 

" Since when?" asked Sara. 

"Dunno. Never got nothin' to-day— nowhere. I 've 
axed an' axed." 

Just to look at her made Sara more hungry and faint. 
But those queer little thoughts were at work in her 


brain, and she was talking to herself, though she was sick 
at heart. 

" If I 'm a princess," she was saying — " if I 'm a princess 
— when they were poor and driven from their thrones — 
they always shared— with the populace— if they met one 
poorer and hungrier than themselves. They always shared. 
Buns are a penny each. If it had been sixpence I could 
have eaten six. It won't be enough for either of us. But 
it will be better than nothing." 

" Wait a minute," she said to the beggar child. 

She went into the shop. It was warm and smelled deli- 
ciously. The woman w^as just going to put some more hot 
buns into the window. 

" If you please," said Sara, " have you lost fourpence— 
a silver fourpence? " And she held the forlorn little piece 
of money out to her. 

The woman looked at it and then at her— at her intense 
little face and draggled, once fine clothes. 

"Bless us! no," she answered. "Did you find it?" 

" Yes," said Sara. " In the gutter." 

" Keep it, then," said the woman. " It may have been 
there for a week, and goodness knows who lost it. You 
could never find out." 

" I know that," said Sara, " but I thought I would ask 

" Not many w^ould," said the woman, looking puzzled 
and interested and good-natured all at once. 

" Do you want to buy something? " she added, as she saw 
Sara glance at the buns. 


The beggar girl was still huddled up in Uie ruriier. 


" Four buns, if you please," said Sara. " Those at a 
penny each." 

The woman went to the window and put some in a paper 

Sara noticed that she put in six. 

" I said four, if you please," she explained. " I have 
only four pence." 

" I '11 throw in two for makeweight," said the woman, 
with her good-natured look. " I dare say you can eat them 
sometime. Are n't you hungry?" 

A mist rose before Sara's eyes. 

" Yes," she answered. " I am very hungry, and I am 
much obliged to you for your kindness; and"— she was 
going to add — "there is a child outside who is hungrier 
than I am." But just at that moment two or three cus- 
tomers came in at once, and each one seemed in a hurry, so 
she could only thank the woman again and go out. 

The beggar girl was still huddled up in the corner of 
the step. She looked frightful in her wet and dirty rags. 
She was staring straight before her with a stupid look of 
suffering, and Sara saw her suddenly draw the back of her 
roughened black hand across her eyes to rub away the tears 
which seemed to have surprised her by forcing their way 
from under her lids. She was muttering to herself. 

Sara opened the paper bag and took out one of the hot 
buns, which had already warmed her own cold hands a 

" See," she said, putting the bun in the ragged lap, " this 
is nice and hot. Eat it, and you will not feel so hungry." 


The child started and stared up at her, as if such sud- 
den, amazing good luck almost frightened her; then she 
snatched up the bun and began to cram it into her mouth 
with great wolfish bites. 

"Oh, my! Oh, my!" Sara heard her say hoarsely, in 
wild delight. ''Oh, my!" 

Sara took out three more buns and put them down. 

The sound in the hoarse, ravenous voice was awful. 

" She is hungrier than I am," she said to herself. " She 's 
starving." But her hand trembled when she put down the 
fourth bun. " I 'm not starving," she said— and she put 
down the fifth. 

The little ravening London savage was still snatching 
and devouring when she turned away. She was too raven- 
ous to give any thanks, even if she had ever been taught 
politeness — which she had not. She was only a poor little 
wild animal. 

" Good-by," said Sara. 

When she reached the other side of the street she looked 
back. The child had a bun in each hand and had stopped 
in the middle of a bite to watch her. Sara gave her a little 
nod, and the child, after another stare, — a curious lingering 
stare, — jerked her shaggy head in response, and until Sara 
was out of sight she did not take another bite or even finish 
the one she had begun. 

At that moment the baker-woman looked out of her shop 

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "If that young un 
has n't given her buns to a beggar child ! It was n't because 


she did n't want them, either. Well, well, she looked hun- 
gry enough. I 'd give something to know what she did it 

She stood behind her window for a few moments and 
pondered. Then her curiosity got the better of her. She 
went to the door and spoke to the beggar child. 

"Who gave you those buns?" she asked her. 

The child nodded her head toward Sara's vanishing 

"What did she say?" inquired the woman. 

" Axed me if I was 'ungry," replied the hoarse voice. 

" What did you say ? " 

" Said I was jist." 

" And then she came in and got the buns, and gave them 
to you, did she?" 

The child nodded. 

"How many?" 

" Five." 

The woman thought it over. 

"Left just one for herself," she said in a low voice. 
" And she could have eaten the whole six— I saw it in her 

She looked after the little draggled far-away figure and 
felt more disturbed in her usually comfortable mind than 
she had felt for many a day. 

" I wish she had n't gone so quick," she said. " I 'm 
blest if she should n't have had a dozen." Then she turned 
to the child. 

"Are you hungry yet?" she said. 


" I 'm alius hungry," was the answer, " but 't ain't as bad 
as it was." 

" Come in here," said the woman, and she held open the 
shop door. 

The child got up and shuffled in. To be invited into a 
warm place full of bread seemed an incredible thing. She 
did not know what was going to happen. She did not care, 

" Get yourself warm," said the woman, pointing to a 
fire in the tiny back room. " And look here; when you are 
hard up for a bit of bread, you can come in here and ask 
for it. I 'm blest if I won't give it to you for that young 
one's sake." 

Sara found some comfort in her remaining bun. At all 
events, it was very hot, and it was better than nothing. As 
she walked along she broke off small pieces and ate them 
slowly to make them last longer. 

" Suppose it was a magic bun," she said, " and a bite was 
as much as a whole dinner. I should be overeating myself 
if I went on like this." 

It was dark when she reached the square where the Select 
Seminary was situated. The lights in the houses were all 
lighted. The* blinds were not yet drawn in the windows 
of the room where she nearly always caught glimpses 
of members of the Large Family. Frequently at this hour 
she could see the gentleman she called Mr. ^lontmorency 
sitting in a big chair, with a small swarm round him, talk- 
ing, laughing, perching on the arms of his seat or on his 


knees or leaning against them. This evening the swarm 
was about him, but he was not seated. On the contrary, 
there was a good deal of excitement going on. It was evi- 
dent that a journey was to be taken, and it was Mr. Mont- 
morency who was to take it. A brougham stood before the 
door, and a big portmanteau had been strapped upon it. 
The children were dancing about, chattering and hanging 
on to their father. The pretty rosy mother was standing 
near him, talking as if she was asking final questions. Sara 
paused a moment to see the little ones lifted up and kissed 
and the bigger ones bent over and kissed also. 

" I wonder if he will stay away long," she thought. 
" The portmanteau is rather big. Oh, dear, how they will 
miss him! I shall miss him myself — even though he 
does n't know I am alive." 

When the door opened she moved away, — remembering 
the sixpence, — but she saw the traveller come out and stand 
against the background of the warmly lighted hall, the 
older children still hovering about him. 

"Will Moscow be covered with snow?" said the little 
girl Janet. "Will there be ice everywhere?" 

"Shall you drive in a drosky?" cried another. "Shall 
you see the Czar?" 

" I will write and tell you all about it," he answered, 
laughing. " And I will send you pictures of muzhiks and 
things. Run into the house. It is a hideous damp night. 
I would rather stay with you than go to INloscow. Good 
night! Good night, duckies! God bless you!" And he 
ran down the steps and jumped into the brougham. 


" If you find the little girl, give her our love," shouted 
Guy Clarence, jumping up and down on the door-mat. 

Then they went in and shut the door. 

" Did you see," said Janet to Nora, as they went back to 
the room — "the little-girl-who-is-not-a-beggar was pass- 
ing? She looked all cold and wet, and I saw her turn 
her head over her shoulder and look at us. Mamma says 
her clothes always look as if they had been given her by 
some one who was quite rich — some one who only let her 
have them because they were too shabby to wear. The peo- 
ple at the school always send her out on errands on the hor- 
ridest days and nights there are." 

Sara crossed the square to Miss Minchin's area steps, 
feeling faint and shaky. 

" I wonder who the little girl is," she thought—*' the little 
girl he is going to look for." 

And she went down the area steps, lugging her basket 
and finding it very heavy indeed, as the father of the Large 
Family drove quickly on his way to the station to take the 
train which was to carry him to Moscow, where he was to 
make his best efforts to search for the lost Httle daughter 
of Captain Crewe. 



ON this very afternoon, while Sara was out, a 
I strange thing happened in the attic. Only IMel- 
chisedec saw and heard it; and he was so much 
alarmed and mystified that he scuttled back to his hole and 
hid there, and really quaked and trembled as he peeped out 
furtively and with great caution to watch what was go- 
ing on. 

The attic had been very still all the day after Sara had 
left it in the early morning. The stillness had only been 
broken by the pattering of the rain upon the slates and the 
skylight. Melchisedec had, in fact, found it rather dull; 
and when the rain ceased to patter and perfect silence 
reigned, he decided to come out and reconnoitre, though 
experience taught him that Sara would not return for some 
time. He had been rambling and sniffing about, and had 
just found a totally unexpected and unexplained crumb 
left from his last meal, when his attention was attracted by 
a sound on the roof. He stopped to listen with a palpitat- 
ing heart. The sound suggested that something was mov- 
ing on the roof. It was approaching the skylight; it 
reached the skylight. The skylight was being mysteriously 
opened. A dark face peered into the attic; then another 



face appeared behind it, and both looked in with signs of 
caution and interest. Two men were outside on the roof, 
and were making silent preparations to enter through the 
skylight itself. One was Ram Dass, and the other was a 
young man who was the Indian gentleman's secretary ; but 
of course Melchisedec did not know this. He only knew 
that the men were invading the silence and privacy of the 
attic; and as the one with the dark face let himself down 
through the aperture with such lightness and dexterity 
that he did not make the slightest sound, Melchisedec 
turned tail and fled precipitately back to his hole. He was 
frightened to death. He had ceased to be timid with Sara, 
and knew she would never throw anything but crumbs, 
and would never make any sound other than the soft, 
low, coaxing whistling; but strange men were dangerous 
things to remain near. He lay close and flat near the en- 
trance of his home, just managing to peep through the 
crack with a bright, alarmed eye. How much he under- 
stood of the talk he heard I am not in the least able to say ; 
but, even if he had understood it all, he would probably 
have remained greatly mystified. 

The secretary, who was light and young, slipped through 
the skylight as noiselessly as Ram Dass had done; and he 
caught a last ghmpse of Melchisedec's vanishing tail. 

" Was that a rat? " he asked Ram Dass in a whisper. 

" Yes; a rat, Sahib," answered Ram Dass, also whisper- 
ing. " There are many in the walls." 

" Ugh! " exclaimed the young man; " it is a wonder the 
child is not terrified of them." 


Ram Dass made a gesture with his hands. He also 
smiled respectfully. He was in this place as the intimate 
exponent of Sara, though she had only spoken to him once. 

" The child is the little friend of all things, Sahib," he 
answered. " She is not as other children. I see her when 
she does not see me. I slip across the slates and look at her 
many nights to see that she is safe. I watch her from my 
window when she does not know I am near. She stands 
on the table there and looks out at the sky as if it spoke to 
her. The sparrows come at her call. The rat she has fed 
and tamed in her loneliness. The poor slave of the house 
comes to her for comfort. There is a little child who comes 
to her in secret; there is one older who worships her and 
would listen to her forever if she might. This I have seen 
when I have crept across the roof. By the mistress of the 
house— who is an evil woman— she is treated like a pariah; 
but she has the bearing of a child who is of the blood of 
kings ! " 

" You seem to know a great deal about her," the secre- 
tary said. 

" All her life each day I know," answered Ram Dass. 
" Her going out I know, and her coming in ; her sadness and 
her poor joys; her coldness and her hunger. I know when 
she sits alone until midnight, learning from her books; I 
know when her secret friends steal to her and she is happier 
— as children can be, even in the midst of poverty — be- 
cause they come and she may laugh and talk with them in 
whispers. If she were ill I should know, and I would come 
and serve her if it might be done." 


" You are sure no one comes near this place but herself, 
and that she will not return and surprise us. She would 
be frightened if she found us here, and the Sahib Carris- 
ford's plan would be spoiled." 

Ram Dass crossed noiselessly to the door and stood close 
to it. 

" None mount here but herself. Sahib," he said. " She 
has gone out with her basket and may be gone for hours. 
If I stand here I can hear any step before it reaches the 
last flight of the stairs." 

The secretary took a pencil and a tablet from his breast 

" Keep your ears open," he said; and he began to walk 
slowly and softly round the miserable little room, making 
rapid notes on his tablet as he looked at things. 

First he went to the narrow bed. He pressed his hand 
upon the mattress and uttered an exclamation. 

" As hard as a stone," he said. " That will have to be 
altered some day when she is out. A special journey can be 
made to bring it across. It cannot be done to-night." He 
lifted the covering and examined the one thin pillow. 

" Coverlet dingy and worn, blanket thin, sheets patched 
and ragged," he said. " What a bed for a child to sleep in 
— and in a house which calls itself respectable! There 
has not been a fire in that grate for many a day," glancing 
at the rusty fireplace. 

" Never since I have seen it," said Ram Dass. " The 
mistress of the house is not one who remembers that an- 
other than herself may be cold." 


The secretary was writing quickly on his tablet. He 
looked up from it as he tore off a leaf and slipped it into 
his breast pocket. 

"It is a strange way of doing the thing," he said. " Who 
planned it?" 

Ram Dass made a modestly apologetic obeisance. 

" It is true that the first thought was mine, Sahib," he 
said ; " though it was naught but a fancy. I am fond of this 
child ; we are both lonely. It is her way to relate her visions 
to her secret friends. Being sad one night, I lay close to 
the open skylight and listened. The vision she related told 
what this miserable room might be if it had comforts in it. 
She seemed to see it as she talked, and she grew cheered 
and warmed as she spoke. Then she came to this fancy; 
and the next day, the Sahib being ill and wretched, I told 
him of the thing to amuse him. It seemed then but a 
dream, but it pleased the Sahib. To hear of the child's 
doings gave him entertainment. He became interested in 
her and asked questions. At last he began to please himself 
with the thought of making her visions real things." 

" You think that it can be done while she sleeps? Sup- 
pose she awakened," suggested the secretary; and it was 
evident that whatsoever the plan referred to was, it had 
caught and pleased his fancy as well as the Sahib Carris- 

" I can move as if my feet were of velvet," Ram Dass 
replied; "and children sleep soundly— even the unhappy 
ones. I could have entered this room in the night many 
times, and without causing her to turn upon her pillow. 


If the other bearer passes to me the things through the 
window, I can do all and she will not stir. When she 
awakens she will think a magician has been here." 

He smiled as if his heart warmed under his white robe, 
and the secretary smiled back at him. 

" It will be like a story from the 'Arabian Nights,' " he 
said. " Only an Oriental could have planned it. It does 
not belong to London fogs." 

They did not remain very long, to the great relief of 
Melchisedec, who, as he probably did not comprehend their 
conversation, felt their movements and whispers ominous. 
The young secretary seemed interested in everything. He 
wrote down things about the floor, the fireplace, the 
broken footstool, the old table, the walls— which last he 
touched with his hand again and again, seeming much 
pleased when he found that a number of old nails had been 
driven in various places. 

" You can hang things on them," he said. 

Ram Dass smiled mysteriously. 

" Yesterday, when she was out," he said, " I entered, 
bringing with me small, sharp nails which can be pressed 
into the wall without blows from a hammer. I placed 
many in the plaster where I may need them. They are 

The Indian gentleman's secretary stood still and looked 
round him as he thrust his tablets back into his* pocket. 

" I think I have made notes enough; we can go now," he 
said. " The Sahib Carrisford has a warm heart. It is a 
thousand pities that he has not found the lost child." 


" If he should find her his strength would be restored 
to him," said Ram Dass. " His God may lead her to him 

Then they slipped through the skylight as noiselessly as 
they had entered it. And, after he was quite sure they 
had gone, Melchisedec was greatly relieved, and in the 
course of a few minutes felt it safe to emerge from his 
hole again and scuffle about in the hope that even such 
alarming human beings as these might have chanced to 
carry crumbs in their pockets and drop one or two of them. 



"W" 'W "THEN Sara had passed the house next door she 
%/%/ had seen Ram Dass closing the shutters, and 

▼ ▼ caught her ghmpse of this room also. 

"It is a long time since I saw a nice place from the in- 
side," was the thought which crossed her mind. 

There was the usual bright fire glowing in the grate, and 
the Indian gentleman was sitting before it. His head was 
resting in his hand, and he looked as lonely and unhappy as 

" Poor man!" said Sara; " I wonder what you are sup- 

And this was what he was "supposing" at that very 

" Suppose," he was thinking, "suppose— even if Carmi- 
chael traces the people to Moscow — the little girl they took 
from Madame Pascal's school in Paris is not the one we 
are in search of. Suppose she proves to be quite a different 
child. What steps shall I take next? " 

When Sara went into the house she met Miss Minchin, 
who had come down-stairs to scold the cook. 

"Where have you wasted your time?" she demanded. 
" You have been out for hours." 



" It was so wet and muddy," Sara answered, " it was 
hard to walk, because my shoes were so bad and sHpped 

" Make no excuses," said Miss Minchin, " and tell no 

Sara went in to the cook. The cook had received a severe 
lecture and was in a fearful temper as a result. She was 
only too rejoiced to have some one to vent her rage on, and 
Sara was a convenience, as usual. 

" Why did n't you stay all night? " she snapped. 

Sara laid her purchases on the table. 

" Here are the things," she said. 

The cook looked them over, grumbling. She was in a 
very savage humor indeed. 

"May I have something to eat?" Sara asked rather 

" Tea 's over and done with," was the answer. " Did you 
expect me to keep it hot for you? " 

Sara stood silent for a second. 

" I had no dinner," she said next, and her voice was 
quite low. She made it low because she was afraid it would 

" There 's some bread in the pantry," said the cook. 
" That 's all you '11 get at this time of day." 

Sara went and found the bread. It was old and hard and 
dry. The cook Avas in too vicious a humor to give her any- 
thing to eat with it. It was always safe and easy to vent 
her spite on Sara. Realh^ it was hard for the child to 
climb the three long flights of stairs leading to her attic. 


She often found them long and steep when she was tired; 
but to-night it seemed as if she would never reach the top. 
Several times she was obliged to stop to rest. When she 
reached the top landing she was glad to see the glimmer 
of a light coming from under her door. That meant that 
Ermengarde had managed to creep up to pay her a visit. 
There was some comfort in that. It was better than to go 
into the room alone and find it empty and desolate. The 
mere presence of plump, comfortable Ermengarde, wrap- 
ped in her red shawl, would warm it a little. 

Yes; there Ermengarde was when she opened the door. 
She was sitting in the middle of the bed, with her feet 
tucked safely under her. She had never become intimate 
with Melchisedec and his family, though they rather fas- 
cinated her. When she found herself alone in the attic she 
always preferred to sit on the bed until Sara arrived. She 
had, in fact, on this occasion had time to become rather 
nervous, because INIelchisedec had appeared and sniffed 
about a good deal, and once had made her utter a repressed 
squeal by sitting up on his hind legs and, while he looked 
at her, sniffing pointedly in her direction. 

"Oh, Sara," she cried out, " I am glad you have come. 
Melchy would sniff about so. I tried to coax him to go 
back, but he would n't for such a long time. I like him, 
you know; but it does frighten me when he sniffs right at 
me. Do you think he ever would jump? " 

" No," answered Sara. 

Ermengarde crawled forward on the bed to look at her. 

"You do look tired, Sara," she said; "you are quite 


" I am tired," said Sara, dropping on to the lop-sided 
footstool. " Oh, there 's Melchisedec, poor thing. He 's 
come to ask for his supper." 

Melchisedec had come out of his hole as if he had been 
listening for her footstep. Sara was quite sure he knew it. 
He came forward with an affectionate, expectant expres- 
sion as Sara put her hand in her pocket and turned it in- 
side out, shaking her head. 

" I 'm very sorry," she said. " I have n't one crumb left. 
Go home, Melchisedec, and tell your wife there was no- 
thing in my pocket. I 'm afraid I forgot because the cook 
and Miss Minchin were so cross." 

INIelchisedec seemed to understand. He shviffled resign- 
edly, if not contentedly, back to his home. 

" I did not expect to see you to-night, Ermie," Sara 

Ermengarde hugged herself in the red shawl. 

" Miss Amelia has gone out to spend the night with her 
old aunt," she explained. " No one else ever comes and 
looks into the bedrooms after we are in bed. I could stay 
here until morning if I wanted to." 

She pointed toward the table under the skylight. Sara 
had not looked toward it as she came in. A number of 
books were piled upon it. Ermengarde's gesture was a 
dejected one. 

"Papa has sent me some more books, Sara," she said. 
" There they are." 

Sara looked round and got up at once. She ran to the 
table, and picking up the top volume, turned over its leaves 
quickly. For the moment she forgot her discomforts. 


" Ah," she cried out, " how beautiful ! Carlyle's ' French 
Revolution.' I have so wanted to read that!" 

" I have n't," said Ermengarde. " And papa will be so 
cross if I don't. He '11 expect me to know all about it 
when I go home for the holidays. What shall I do? " 

Sara stopped turning over the leaves and looked at her 
with an excited flush on her cheeks. 

" Look here," she cried, " if you '11 lend me these books, 
I 'II read them— and tell you everything that 's in them 
afterward— and I '11 tell it so that you will remember it, 

"Oh, goodness!" exclaimed Ermengarde. "Do you 
think you can?" 

" I know I can," Sara answered. " The little ones always 
remember what I tell them." 

" Sara," said Ermengarde, hope gleaming in her round 
face, " if you '11 do that, and make me remember, I '11— 
I '11 give you anything." 

" I don't want you to give me anything," said Sara. " I 
want your books— I want them! " And her eyes grew big, 
and her chest heaved. 

"Take them, then," said Ermengarde. "I wish I 
wanted them— but I don't. I 'm not clever, and my fa- 
ther is, and he thinks I ought to be." 

Sara was opening one book after the other. " What are 
you going to tell your father?" she asked, a slight doubt 
dawning in her mind. 

" Oh, he need n't know," answered Ermengarde. " He '11 
think I 've read them." 


Sara put down her book and shook her head slowly. 
" That 's almost like telhng lies," she said. " And lies- 
well, you see, they are not only wicked — they 're vulgar. 
Sometimes"— reflectively— " I 've thought perhaps I 
might do something wicked,— I might suddenly fly into 
a rage and kill Miss Minchin, you know, when she was 
ill-treating me,— but I could lit be vulgar. Why can't you 
tell your father / read them? " 

" He wants me to read them," said Ermengarde, a little 
discouraged by this unexpected turn of afl'airs. 

" He wants you to know what is in them," said Sara. 
" And if I can tell it to you in an easy way and make you 
remember it, I should think he would like that." 

" He '11 like it if I learn anything in any way," said rue- 
ful Ermengarde. " You would if you -were my father." 

"It 's not your fault that—" began Sara. She pulled 
herself up and stopped rather suddenly. She had been 
going to say, "It 's not your fault that you are stupid." 

" That what? " Ermengarde asked. 

" That you can't learn things quickly," amended Sara. 
"If you can't, you can't. If I can— why, I can; that 's 

She always felt very tender of Ermengarde, and tried 
not to let her feel too strongly the diiFerence between be- 
ing able to learn anything at once, and not being able to 
learn anything at all. As she looked at her plump face, 
one of her wise, old-fashioned thoughts came to her. 

" Perhaps," she said, "to be able to learn things quickly 
is n't everything. To be kind is worth a great deal to other 


people. If Miss Minchin knew everything on earth and 
was like what she is now, she 'd still be a detestable thing, 
and everybody would hate her. Lots of clever people have 
done harm and have been wicked. Look at Robespierre—" 

She stopped and examined Ermengarde's countenance, 
which was beginning to look bewildered. " Don't you re- 
member? " she demanded. " I told you about him not long 
ago. I believe you 've forgotten." 

"Well, I don't remember all of it," admitted Ermen- 

" Well, you wait a minute," said Sara, " and I '11 take off 
my wet things and wrap myself in the coverlet and tell you 
over again." 

She took off her hat and coat and hung them on a nail 
against the wall, and she changed her wet shoes for an old 
pair of slippers. Then she jumped on the bed, and draw- 
ing the coverlet about her shoulders, sat with her arms 
round her knees. 

" Now, hsten," she said. 

She plunged into the gory records of the French Revo- 
lution, and told such stories of it that Ermengarde's eyes 
grew round with alarm and she held her breath. But 
though she was rather terrified, there was a delightful thrill 
in listening, and she was not likely to forget Robespierre 
again, or to have any doubts about the Princesse de Lam- 

"You know they put her head on a pike and danced 
round it," Sara explained. " And she had beautiful float- 
ing blonde hair ; and when I think of her, I never see her 


head on her body, but always on a pike, with those furious 
people dancing and howling." 

It was agreed that Mr. St. John was to be told the plan 
they had made, and for the present the books were to be 
left in the attic. 

" Now let 's tell each other things," said Sara. " How 
are you getting on with your French lessons? " 

" Ever so much better since the last time I came up here 
and you explained the conjugations. Miss Minchin could 
not understand why I did my exercises so well that first 

Sara laughed a little and hugged her knees. 

*' She does n't understand why Lottie is doing her sums 
so well," she said; " but it is because she creeps up here, too, 
and I help her." She glanced round the room. " The attic 
would be rather nice— if it was n't so dreadful," she said, 
laughing again. " It 's a good place to pretend in." 

The truth was that Ermengarde did not know anything 
of the sometimes almost unbearable side of life in the attic, 
and she had not a sufficiently vivid imagination to depict it 
for herself. On the rare occasions that she could reach 
Sara's room she only saw that side of it which was made 
exciting by things which were " pretended " and stories 
which were told. Her visits partook of the character of 
adventures; and though sometimes Sara looked rather pale, 
and it was not to be denied that she had grown very thin, 
her proud little spirit would not admit of complaints. She 
had never confessed that at times she was almost ravenous 
with hunger, as she was to-night. She was growing rap- 


idly, and her constant walking and running about would 
have given her a keen appetite even if she had had abun- 
dant and regular meals of a much more nourishing nature 
than the unappetizing, inferior food snatched at such odd 
times as suited the kitchen convenience. She was growing 
used to a certain gnawing feeling in her young stomach. 

" I suppose soldiers feel like this when they are on a long 
and weary march," she often said to herself. She liked the 
sound of the phrase, " long and weary march." It made her 
feel rather like a soldier. She had also a quaint sense of 
being a hostess in the attic. 

" If I lived in a castle," she argued, " and Ermengarde 
was the lady of another castle, and came to see me, with 
knights and squires and vassals riding with her, and pen- 
nons flying ; when I heard the clarions sounding outside the 
drawbridge I should go down to receive her, and I should 
spread feasts in the banquet-hall and call in minstrels 
to sing and play and relate romances. When she comes 
into the attic I can't spread feasts, but I can tell stories, 
and not let her know disagreeable things. I dare say 
poor chatelaines had to do that in times of famine, when 
their lands had been pillaged." She was a proud, 
brave little chatelaine, and dispensed generously the one 
hospitality she could offer — the dreams she dreamed — the 
visions she saw — the imaginings which were her joy and 

So, as thej^ sat together, Ermengarde did not know that 
she was faint as well as ravenous, and that while she talked 
she now and then wondered if her hunger would let her 


sleep when she was left alone. She felt as if she had never 
been quite so hungry before. 

" I wish I was as thin as you, Sara," Ermengarde said 
suddenly. " I believe j^ou are thinner than you used to be. 
Your eyes look so big, and look at the sharp little bones 
sticking out of your elbow ! " 

Sara pulled down her sleeve, which had pushed itself up. 

" I always was a thin child," she said bravely, "and I al- 
ways had big green eyes." 

" I love your queer eyes," said Ermengarde, looking 
into them with affectionate admiration. " They always 
look as if they saw such a long way. I love them— and 
I love them to be green— though they look black gener- 

" They are cat's eyes," laughed Sara; " but I can't see in 
the dark with them— because I have tried, and I could n't 
— I wish I could." 

It was just at this minute that something happened at 
the skylight which neither of them saw. If either of them 
had chanced to turn and look, she would have been startled 
by the sight of a dark face which peered cautiously into 
the room and disappeared as quickly and almost as silently 
as it had appeare'd. Not quite as silently, however. Sara, 
who had keen ears, suddenly turned a little and looked up at 
the roof. 

" That did n't sound like Melchisedec," she said. *' It 
was n't scratchy enough." 

"What?" said Ermengarde, a little startled. 

"Did n't you think you heard something?" asked Sara. 


*' N-no," Ermengarde faltered. " Did you? " 

"Perhaps I did n't," said Sara; "but I thought I did. 
It sounded as if something was on the slates— something 
that dragged softly." 

" What could it be? " said Ermengarde. " Could it be— 

" No," Sara began cheerfully. " There is nothing to 

She broke off in the middle of her words. They both 
heard the sound that checked her. It was not on the 
slates, but on the stairs below, and it was Miss Minchin's 
angry voice. Sara sprang off the bed, and put out the 

" She is scolding Becky," she whispered, as she stood in 
the darkness. " She is making her cry." 

" Will she come in here? " Ermengarde whispered back, 

" No. She will think I am in bed. Don't stir." 

It was very seldom that Miss Minchin mounted the last 
flight of stairs. Sara could only remember that she had 
done it once before. But now she was angry enough to be 
coming at least part of the way up, and it sounded as if 
she was driving Becky before her. 

"You impudent, dishonest child!" they heard her say. 
" Cook tells me she has missed things repeatedly." 

" 'T war n't me, mum," said Becky, sobbing. " I was 
'ungry enough, but 't war n't me — never! " 

" You deserve to be sent to prison," said Miss Minchin's 
voice. " Picking and stealing ! Half a meat-pie, indeed ! " 


" 'T war n't me," wept Becky. " I could 'ave eat a whole 
iin — but I never laid a finger on it." 

Miss ^Minchin was out of breath between temper and 
mounting the stairs. The meat-pie had been intended for 
her special late supper. It became apparent that she boxed 
Becky's ears. 

" Don't tell falsehoods," she said. " Go to your room 
this instant." 

Both Sara and Ermengarde heard the slap, and then 
heard Becky run in her slip-shod shoes up the stairs and 
into her attic. They heard her door shut, and knew that 
she threw herself upon her bed. 

" I could 'ave e't two of 'em," they heard her cry into 
her pillow. " An' I never took a bite. 'T was cook give 
it to her policeman." 

Sara stood in the middle of the room in the darkness. 
She was clenching her little teeth and opening and shutting 
fiercely her outstretched hands. She could scarcely stand 
still, but she dared not move until Miss Minchin had gone 
down the stairs and all was still. 

" The wicked, cruel thing! " she burst forth. " The cook 
takes things herself and then says Becky steals them. She 
does n't! She does n't! She 's so hungry sometimes that 
she eats crusts out of the ash-barrel!" She pressed her 
hands hard against her face and burst into passionate little 
sobs, and Ermengarde, hearing this unusual thing, was 
overawed by it. Sara was crying! The unconquerable 
Sara ! It seemed to denote something new— some mood she 
had never known. Suppose— ! Suppose— ! A new dread 


possibility presented itself to her kind, slow, little mind all 
at once. She crept off the bed in the dark and found her 
way to the table where the candle stood. She struck a 
match and lit the candle. When she had lighted it, she 
bent forward and looked at Sara, with her new thought 
growing to definite fear in her eyes. 

" Sara," she said in a timid, almost awe-stricken voice, 
"are — are — you never told me — I don't want to be rude, 
but — are you ever hungry? " 

It was too much just at that moment. The barrier broke 
down. Sara lifted her face from her hands. 

" Yes," she said in a new passionate way. " Yes, I am. 
I 'm so hungry now that I could almost eat you. And it 
makes it worse to hear poor Becky. She 's hungrier than I 

Ermengarde gasped. 

"Oh! Oh!" she cried wofully; "and I never knew!" 

" I did n't want you to know," Sara said. " It would 
have made me feel like a street beggar. I know I look like 
a street beggar." 

"No, you don't— you don't!" Ermengarde broke in. 
"Your clothes are a little queer,— but you could n't look 
like a street beggar. You have n't a street-beggar face." 

" A little boy once gave me a sixpence for charity," said 
Sara, with a short little laugh in spite of herself. " Here 
it is." And she pulled out the thin ribbon from her neck. 
" He would n't have given me his Christmas sixpence if I 
had n't looked as if I needed it." 

Somehow the sight of the dear little sixpence was good 


for both of them. It made them laugh a little, though they 
both had tears in their eyes. 

"Who was he?" asked Ermengarde, looking at it quite 
as if it had not been a mere ordinary silver sixpence. 

" He was a darling little thing going to a party," said 
Sara. " He was one of the Large Family, the little one 
with the round legs— the one I call Guy Clarence. I sup- 
pose his nursery was crammed with Christmas presents and 
hampers full of cakes and things, and he could see I had 
had nothing." 

Ermengarde gave a little jump backward. The last 
sentences had recalled something to her troubled mind and 
given her a sudden inspiration. 

"Oh, Sara!" she cried. "What a silly thing I am not 
to have thought of it! " 

"Of what?" 

" Something splendid! " said Ermengarde, in an excited 
hurry. " This very afternoon my nicest aunt sent me a 
box. It is full of good things. I never touched it, I had 
so much pudding at dinner, and I was so bothered about 
papa's books." Her words began to tumble over each 
other. "It 's got cake in it, and little meat-pies, and jam- 
tarts and buns, and oranges and red-currant wine, and 
figs and chocolate. I '11 creep back to my room and get it 
this minute, and we '11 eat it now." 

Sara almost reeled. When one is faint with hunger the 
mention of food has sometimes a curious effect. She 
clutched Ermengarde's arm. 

"Do you think — you could?'' she ejaculated. 


" I know I could," answered Ermengarde, and she ran 
to the door— opened it softly— put her head out into the 
darkness, and listened. Then she went back to Sara. 
" The lights are out. Everybody 's in bed. I can creep — 
and creep — and no one will hear." 

It was so delightful that they caught each other's hands 
and a sudden light sprang into Sara's eyes. 

"Ermie!" she said. "Let us pretend! Let us pre- 
tend it 's a party ! And oh, won't you invite the prisoner in 
the next cell?" 

" Yes ! Yes ! Let us knock on the wall now. The jailer 
won't hear." 

Sara went to the wall. Through it she could hear poor 
Becky crying more softly. She knocked four times. 

" That means, ' Come to me through the secret passage 
under the wall,' she explained. ' I have something to com- 
municate.' " 

Five quick knocks answered her. 

*' She is coming," she said. 

Almost immediately the door of the attic opened and 
Becky appeared. Her eyes were red and her cap was slid- 
ing off, and when she caught sight of Ermengarde she 
began to rub her face nervously with her apron. 

"Don't mind me a bit, Becky!" cried Ermengarde. 

" Miss Ermengarde has asked you to come in," said 
Sara, " because she is going to bring a box of good things 
up here to us." 

Becky's cap almost fell off entirely, she broke in with 
such excitement. 


"To eat, miss?" she said. "Things that 's good to 

" Yes," answered Sara, " and we are going to pretend a 

" And you shall have as much as you tvant to eat," put 
in Ermengarde. " I '11 go this minute!" 

She was in such haste that as she tiptoed out of the attic 
she dropped her red shawl and did not know it had fallen. 
No one saw it for a minute or so. Becky was too much 
overpowered by the good luck which had befallen her. 

" Oh, miss! oh, miss! " she gasped; " I know it was you 
that asked her to let me come. It — it makes me cry to 
think of it." And she went to Sara's side and stood and 
looked at her worshippingly. 

But in Sara's hungry eyes the old light had begun to 
glow and transform her world for her. Here in the attic 
— with the cold night outside — with the afternoon in the 
sloppy streets barely passed— with the memory of the 
awful unfed look in the beggar child's eyes not yet faded— 
this simple, cheerful thing had happened like a thing of 

She caught her breath. 

" Somehow, something always happens," she cried, " just 
before things get to the very worst. It is as if the Magic 
did it. If I could only just remember that always. The 
worst thing never quite comes." 

She gave Becky a little cheerful shake. 

"No, no! You must n't cry!" she said. "We must 
make haste and set the table." 


"Set the table, miss?" said Becky, gazing round the 
room. " What '11 we set it with? " 

Sara looked round the attic, too. 

" There does n't seem to be much," she answered, half 

That moment she saw something and pounced upon it. 
It was Ermengarde's red shawl which lay upon the floor. 

" Here 's the shawl," she cried. " I know she won't mind 
it. It will make such a nice red table-cloth." 

They pulled the old table forward, and threw the shawl 
over it. Red is a wonderfully kind and comfortable color. 
It began to make the room look furnished directly. 

"How nice a red rug would look on the floor!" ex- 
claimed Sara. " We must pretend there is one! " 

Her eye swept the bare boards with a swift glance of 
admiration. The rug was laid down already. 

" How soft and thick it is! " she said, with the little laugh 
which Becky knew the meaning of; and she raised and 
set her foot down again delicately, as if she felt something 
under it. 

" Yes, miss," answered Becky, watching her with seri- 
ous rapture. She was always quite serious. 

"What next, now?" said Sara, and she stood still and put 
her hands over her eyes. " Something will come if I think 
and wait a little "—in a soft, expectant voice. " The Magic 
will tell me." 

One of her favorite fancies was that on " the outside," 
as she called it, thoughts were waiting for people to call 
them. Becky had seen her stand and wait many a time 


before, and knew that in a few seconds she would uncover 
an enlightened, laughing face. 

In a moment she did. 

"There!" she cried. "It has come! I know now! I 
must look among the things in the old trunk I had when 
I was a princess." 

She flew to its corner and kneeled down. It had not been 
put in the attic for her benefit, but because there was no 
room for it elsewhere. Nothing had been left in it but rub- 
bish. But she knew she should find something. The Magic 
always arranged that kind of thing in one way or another. 

In a corner lay a package so insignificant-looking that 
it had been overlooked, and when she herself had found it 
she had kept it as a relic. It contained a dozen small white 
handkerchiefs. She seized them joyfully and ran to the 
table. She began to arrange them upon the red table- 
cover, patting and coaxing them into shape with the narrow 
lace edge curling outward, her JVIagic working its spells for 
her as she did it. 

"These are the plates," she said. "They are golden 
plates. These are the richly embroidered napkins. Nuns 
worked them in convents in Spain." 

"Did they, miss?" breathed Beckj^, her very soul up- 
lifted by the information. 

" You must pretend it," said Sara. " If you pretend it 
enough, you will see them." 

"Yes, miss," said Becky; and as Sara returned to the 
trunk she devoted herself to the effort of accomphshing an 
end so much to be desired. 


Sara turned suddenly to find her standing by tlie table, 
looking very queer indeed. She had shut her eyes, and was 
twisting her face in strange, convulsive contortions, her 
hands hanging stiffly clenched at her sides. She looked as 
if she was trying to lift some enormous weight. 

" What is the matter, Becky? " Sara cried. " What are 
you doing?" 

Becky opened her eyes with a start. 

" I was a-' pretendin',' miss," she answered a little 
sheepishly; "I was tryin' to see it like you do. I almost 
did," with a hopeful grin. " But it takes a lot o' 

" Perhaps it does if you are not used to it," said Sara, 
with friendly sympathy; "but you don't know how easy 
it is when you 've done it often. I would n't try so hard 
just at first. It will come to you after a while. I '11 just 
tell you what things are. Look at these." 

She held an old summer hat in her hand which she had 
fished out of the bottom of the trunk. There was a wreath 
of flowers on it. She pulled the wreath off. 

" These are garlands for the feast," she said grandly. 
" They fill all the air with perfume. There 's a mug on the 
wash-stand, Becky. Oh— and bring the soap-dish for a 

Becky handed them to her reverently. 

"What are they now, miss?" she inquired. "You 'd 
think they was made of crockery,— but I know they 

" This is a carven flagon," said Sara, arranging tendrils 


of the wreath about the mug. " And this "—bending ten- 
derly over the soap-dish and heaping it with roses— "is 
purest alabaster encrusted with gems." 

She touched the things gently, a happy smile hovering 
about her lips which made her look as if she were a creature 
in a dream. 

"My, ain't it lovely!" whisi^ered Becky. 

" If we just had something for bonbon-dishes," Sara 
murmured. " There!"— darting to the trunk again. "I 
remember I saw something this minute." 

It was only a bundle of wool wrapped in red and white 
tissue-paper, but the tissue-paper was soon twisted into the 
form of little dishes, and was combined with the remaining 
flowers to ornament the candlestick which was to light the 
feast. Only the INIagic could have made it more than an 
old table covered with a red shawl and set with rubbish from 
a long-unopened trunk. But Sara drew back and gazed 
at it, seeing wonders ; and Becky, after staring in delight, 
spoke with bated breath. 

" This 'ere," she suggested, with a glance round the attic 
—"is it the Bastille now— or has it turned into somethin' 

"Oh, yes, yes!" said Sara; "quite different. It is a 
banquet-hall! " 

"My eye, miss!" ejaculated Becky. "A blanket-'all ! " 
and she turned to view the splendors about her with awed 

"A banquet-hall," said Sara. "A vast chamber where 
feasts are given. It has a vaulted roof, and a minstrels' 


gallery, and a huge chimney filled with blazing oaken 
logs, and it is brilliant with waxen tapers twinkling on 
every side." 

" My eye, Miss Sara! " gasped Becky again. 

Then the door opened, and Ermengarde came in, rather 
staggering under the weight of her hamper. She started 
back with an exclamation of joy. To enter from the chill 
darkness outside, and find one's self confronted by a to- 
tally unanticipated festal board, draped with red, adorned 
with white napery, and wreathed with flowers, was to feel 
that the preparations were brilliant indeed. 

" Oh, Sara! " she cried out. " You are the cleverest girl 
I ever saw!" 

"Is n't it nice?" said Sara. "They are things out of 
my old trunk. I asked my Magic, and it told me to go and 

" But oh, miss," cried Becky, " wait till she 's told you 
what they are! They ain't just— oh, miss, please tell her," 
appealing to Sara. 

So Sara told her, and because her Magic helped her she 
made her almost see it all: the golden platters— the vaulted 
spaces— the blazing logs— the twinkling waxen tapers. As 
the things were taken out of the hamper — the frosted cakes 
— the fruits — the bonbons and the wine — the feast became 
a splendid thing. 

" It 's like a real party! " cried Ermengarde. 

"It 's like a queen's table," sighed Becky. 

Then Ermengarde had a sudden brilliant thought. 

" I '11 tell you what, Sara," she said. " Pretend you are 
a princess now and this is a royal feast." 


"But it 's your feast," said Sara; "you must be the 
princess, and we will be your maids of honor." 

" Oh, I can't," said Ermengarde. " I 'm too fat, and I 
don't know how. You be her." 

" Well, if you want me to," said Sara. 

But suddenly she thought of something else and ran to 
the rusty grate. 

"There is a lot of paper and i*ubbish stuffed in here!" 
she exclaimed. " If we light it, there will be a bright blaze 
for a few minutes, and we shall feel as if it was a real fire." 
She struck a match and lighted it up with a great specious 
glow which illuminated the room. 

" By the time it stops blazing," Sara said, " we shall for- 
get about its not being real." 

She stood in the dancing glow and smiled. 

" Does n't it look real? " she said. " Now we will begin 
the party." 

She led the way to the table. She waved her hand gra- 
ciously to Ermengarde and Becky. She was in the midst 
of her dream. 

" Advance, fair damsels," she said in her happy dream- 
voice, " and be seated at the banquet-table. My noble fa- 
ther, the king, who is absent on a long journey, has com- 
manded me to feast you." She turned her head slightly 
toward the corner of the room. " What, ho! there, min- 
strels! Strike up with your viols and bassoons. Prin- 
cesses," she explained rapidly to Ermengarde and Becky, 
" always had minstrels to play at their feasts. Pretend 
there is a minstrel gallery up there in the corner. Now we 
will begin." 


They had barely had time to take then* pieces of cake 
into their hands— not one of them had time to do more, 
when — they all three sprang to their feet and turned pale 
faces toward the door— listening— listening. 

Some one was coming up the stairs. There was no 
mistake about it. Each of them recognized the angry, 
mounting tread and knew that the end of all things had 

"It 's— the missus!" choked Becky, and dropped her 
piece of cake upon the floor. 

" Yes," said Sara, her eyes growing shocked and large 
in her small white face. " Miss Minchin has found us 

Miss Minchin struck the door open with a blow of her 
hand. She was pale herself, but it was with rage. She 
looked from the frightened faces to the banquet-table, and 
from the banquet-table to the last flicker of the burnt paper 
in the grate. 

"I have been suspecting something of this sort," she 
exclaimed; *'but I did not dream of such audacity. La- 
vinia was telling the truth." 

So they knew that it was Lavinia who had somehow 
guessed their secret and had betrayed them. Miss Min- 
chin strode over to Becky and boxed her ears for a second 

"You impudent creature!" she said. "You leave the 
house in the morning!" 

Sara stood quite still, her eyes growing larger, her face 
paler. Ermengarde burst into tears. 

Miss iMincliin struck the door open witli a blow of her hand. 


" Oh, don't send her away," she sobbed. " My aunt sent 
me the hamper. We 're— only— having a party." 

" So I see," said Miss Minchin, witheringly. " With the 
Princess Sara at the head of the table." She turned 
fiercely on Sara. " It is your doing, I know," she cried. 
" Ermengarde would never have thought of such a thing. 
You decorated the table, I suppose— with this rubbish." 
She stamped her foot at Becky. " Go to your attic! " she 
commanded, and Becky stole away, her face hidden in her 
apron, her shoulders shaking. 

Then it was Sara's turn again. 

" I will attend to you to-morrow. You shall have neither 
breakfast, dinner, nor supper!" 

" I have not had either dinner or supper to-day. Miss 
Minchin," said Sara, rather faintly. 

" Then all the better. You will have something to re- 
member. Don't stand there. Put those things into the 
hamper again." 

She began to sweep them off the table into the hamper 
herself, and caught sight of Ermengarde's new books. 

"And you" — to Ermengarde — "have brought your 
beautiful new books into this dirty attic. Take them up 
and go back to bed. You will stay there all day to-morrow, 
and I shall write to your papa. What would he say if he 
knew where you are to-night?" 

Something she saw in Sara's grave, fixed gaze at this 
moment made her turn on her fiercely. 

"What are you thinking of?" she demanded. "Why 
do you look at me like that? " 


" I was wondering," answered Sara, as she had answered 
that notable day in the school-room. 

" What were you wondering? " 

It was very like the scene in the school-room. There was 
no pertness in Sara's manner. It was only sad and quiet. 

" I was wondering," she said in a low voice, " what my 
pajia would say if he knew where I am to-night." 

Miss Minchin was infuriated just as she had been before, 
and her anger expressed itself, as before, in an intemperate 
fashion. She flew at her and shook her. 

" You insolent, unmanageable child! " she cried. " How 
dare you ! How dare you ! " 

She picked up the books, swept the rest of the feast back 
into the hamper in a jumbled heap, thrust it into Ermen- 
garde's arms, and j)ushed her before her toward the door. 

" I will leave you to wonder," she said. " Go to bed this 
instant." And she shut the door behind herself and poor 
stumbling Ermengarde, and left Sara standing quite alone. 

The dream was quite at an end. The last spark had died 
out of the paper in the grate and left only black tinder; the 
table was left bare, the golden plates and richly embroid- 
ered napkins, and the garlands were transformed again 
into old handkerchiefs, scraps of red and white paper, and 
discarded artificial flowers all scattered on the floor; the 
minstrels in the minstrel gallery had stolen away, and the 
viols and bassoons were still. Emily was sitting with her 
back against the wall, staring very hard. Sara saw her, 
and went and picked her up with trembling hands. 

" There is n't any banquet left, Emily," she said. " And 


there is n't any princess. There is nothing left but the 
prisoners in the Bastille." And she sat down and hid her 

What would have happened if she had not hidden it just 
then, and if she had chanced to look up at the skylight at 
the wrong moment, I do not know— perhaps the end of this 
chapter might have been quite different— because if she 
had glanced at the skylight she would certainly have been 
startled by what she would have seen. She would have seen 
exactly the same face pressed against the glass and peering 
in at her as it had peered in earlier in the evening when she 
had been talking to Ermengarde. 

But she did not look up. She sat with her little black 
head in her arms for some time. She always sat like that 
when she was trying to bear something in silence. Then 
she got up and went slowly to the bed. 

" I can't pretend anything else — while I am awake," she 
said. " There would n't be any use in trying. If I go to 
sleep, perhaps a dream will come and pretend for me." 

She suddenly felt so tired — perhaps through want of 
food— that she sat down on the edge of the bed quite 

" Suppose there was a bright fire in the grate, with lots 
of little dancing flames," she murmured. " Suppose there 
was a comfortable chair before it— and suppose there was 
a small table near, with a little hot — hot supper on it. And 
suppose " — as she drew the thin coverings over her — " sup- 
pose this was a beautiful soft bed, with fleecy blankets and 
large downy pillows. Suppose— suppose— " And her 


very weariness was good to her, for her eyes closed and she 
fell fast asleep. 

She did not know how long she slept. But she had been 
tired enough to sleep deeply and profoundly — too deeply 
and soundly to be disturbed by anything, even by the 
squeaks and scamperings of Melchisedec's entire family, if 
all his sons and daughters had chosen to come out of their 
hole to fight and tumble and play. 

When she awakened it was rather suddenly, and she did 
not know that any particular thing had called her out 
of her sleep. The truth was, however, that it was a 
sound which had called her back — a real sound — the 
click of the skylight as it fell in closing after a lithe white 
figure which slipped through it and crouched down close 
by upon the slates of the roof — just near enough to 
see what happened in the attic, but not near enough to be 

At first she did not open her eyes. She felt too sleepy 
and — curiously enough — too warm and comfortable. She 
was so warm and comfortable, indeed, that she did not be- 
lieve she was really awake. She never was as warm and 
cosey as this except in some lovely vision. 

"What a nice dream!" she murmured. "I feel quite 
warm. I— don't— want— to— wake— up." 

Of course it was a dream. She felt as if warm, delight- 
ful bedclothes were heaped upon her. She could actually 
feel blankets, and when she put out her hand it touched 
something exactly like a satin-covered eider-down quilt. 


She must not awaken from this delight— she must be quite 
still and make it last. 

But she could not— even though she kept her eyes closed 
tightly, she could not. Something was forcing her to 
awaken— something in the room. It was a sense of light, 
and a sound— the sound of a crackling, roaring little fire. 

" Oh, I am awakening," she said mournfully. " I can't 
help it— I can't." 

Her eyes opened in spite of herself. And then she ac- 
tually smiled — for what she saw she had never seen in the 
attic before, and knew she never should see. 

" Oh, I have n't awakened," she whispered, daring to rise 
on her elbow and look all about her, " I am dreaming yet." 
She knew it must be a dream, for if she were awake such 
things could not— could not be. 

Do you wonder that she felt sure she had not come back 
to earth? This is what she saw. In the grate there was 
a glowing, blazing fire ; on the hob was a little brass kettle 
hissing and boiling; spread upon the floor was a thick, 
warm crimson rug; before the fire a folding-chair, un- 
folded, and with cushions on it; by the chair a small fold- 
ing-table, unfolded, covered with a white cloth, and upon it 
spread small covered dishes, a cup, a saucer, a tea-pot; on 
the bed were new warm coverings and a satin-covered down 
quilt; at the foot a curious wadded silk robe, a pair of 
quilted slippers, and some books. The room of her dream 
seemed changed into fairyland— and it was flooded with 
warm light, for a bright lamp stood on the table covered 
with a rosy shade. 


She sat up, resting on her elbow, and her breathing came 
short and fast. 

" It does not — melt away," she panted. " Oh, I never 
had such a dream before." She scarcely dared to stir; but 
at last she pushed the bedclothes aside, and put her feet on 
the floor with a rapturous smile. 

"I am dreaming— I am getting out of bed," she heard 
her own voice sajs and then, as she stood up in the midst 
of it all, turning slowly from side to side,—" I am dream- 
ing it stays— real! I 'm dreaming it feels real. It 's be- 
witched — or I 'm bewitched. I only think I see it all." 
Her words began to hurry themselves. " If I can only 
keep on thinking it," she cried, "I don't care! I don't 

She stood panting a moment longer, and then cried out 

" Oh, it is n't true!" she said. " It cant be true! But 
oh, how true it seems!" 

The blazing fire drew her to it, and she knelt down and 
held out her hands close to it — so close that the heat made 
her start back. 

" A fire I only dreamed would n't be liot" she cried. 

She sprang up, touched the table, the dishes, the rug ; she 
went to the bed and touched the blankets. She took up 
the soft wadded dressing-gown, and suddenly clutched it to 
her breast and held it to her cheek. 

" It 's warm. It 's soft ! " she almost sobbed. " It 's real. 
It must be!" 


She threw it over her shoulders, and put her feet into the 

" They are real, too. It 's all real!" she cried. " I am 
not—1 am not dreaming!" 

She almost staggered to the books and opened the one 
which lay upon the top. Something was written on the 
fly-leaf — just a few words, and they were these: 

"To the little girl in the attic. From a friend." 

When she saw that— was n't it a strange thing for her to 
do?— she put her face down upon the page and burst into 

" I don't know who it is," she said; "but somebody cares 
for me a httle. I have a friend." 

She took her candle and stole out of her own room and 
into Becky's, and stood by her bedside. 

"Becky, Becky!" she whispered as loudly as she dared. 
"Wake up!" 

When Becky wakened, and she sat upright staring 
aghast, her face still smudged with traces of tears, beside 
her stood a little figure in a luxurious wadded robe of crim- 
son silk. The face she saw was a shining, wonderful thing. 
The Princess Sara— as she remembered her— stood at her 
very bedside, holding a candle in her hand. 

" Come," she said. " Oh, Becky, come ! " 

Becky was too frightened to speak. She simply got up 
and followed her, with her mouth and eyes open, and with- 
out a word. 

And when they crossed the threshold, Sara shut the door 


gently and drew her into the warm, glowing midst of 
things which made her brain reel and her hungry senses 

" It 's tme! It 's true! " she cried. " I Ve touched them 
all. They are as real as we are. The Magic has come and 
done it, Becky, while we were asleep— the Magic that won't 
let those worst things ever quite happen." 



IMAGINE, if you can, what the rest of the evening was 
like. How they crouched by the fire which blazed and 
leaped and made so much of itself in the little grate. 
How they removed the covers of the dishes, and found rich, 
hot, savory soup, which was a meal in itself, and sandwiches 
and toast and muffins enough for both of them. The mug 
from the washstand was used as Becky's tea-cup, and the 
tea was so delicious that it was not necessary to pretend that 
it was anything else but tea. They were warm and full-fed 
and happy, and it was just like Sara that, having found 
her strange good fortune real, she should give herself up to 
the enjoyment of it to the utmost. She had lived such a 
life of imaginings that she was quite equal to accepting any 
wonderful thing that happened, and almost to cease, in 
a short time, to find it bewildering. 

" I don't know any one in the world who could have 
done it," she said; "but there has been some one. And 
here we are sitting by their fire— and— and— it 's true! 
And whoever it is— wherever they are— I have a friend, 
Becky— some one is my friend." 

It cannot be denied that as they sat before the blazing 



fire, and ate the nourishing, comfortable food, they felt a 
kind of rapturous awe, and looked into each other's eyes 
with something like doubt. 

"Do you think," Becky faltered once, in a whisper— 
" do you think it could melt away, miss? Had n't we bet- 
ter be quick? " And she hastily crammed her sandwich into 
her mouth. If it was only a dream, kitchen manners would 
be overlooked. 

" No, it won't melt away," said Sara. " I am eating 
this muffin, and I can taste it. You never really eat things 
in dreams. You only think you are going to eat them. Be- 
sides, I keep giving myself pinches; and I touched a "hot 
piece of coal just now, on purpose." 

The sleepy comfort which at length almost overpowered 
them was a heavenly thing. It was the drowsiness of 
happy, well-fed childhood, and they sat in the fire-glow and 
luxuriated in it until Sara found herself turning to look 
at her transformed bed. 

There were even blankets enough to share with Becky. 
The narrow couch in the next attic was more comfort- 
able that night than its occupant had ever dreamed that it 
could be. 

As she went out of the room, Becky turned upon the 
threshold and looked about her with devouring eyes. 

" If it ain't here in the mornin', miss," she said, *' it 's 
been here to-night, anyways, an' I sha'n't never forget it." 
She looked at each particular thing, as if to commit it to 
memory. " The fire was there" pointing with her finger, 
" an' the table was before it ; an' the lamp was there, an' 


the light looked rosy red; an' there was a satin cover on 
your bed, an' a warm rug on the floor, an' everythin' 
looked beautiful; an'" — she paused a second, and laid her 
hand on her stomach tenderly—" there was soup an' sand- 
wiches an' muffins— there was." And, with this conviction 
a reality at least, she went away. 

Through the mysterious agency which works in schools 
and among servants, it was quite well known in the morn- 
ing that Sara Crewe was in horrible disgrace, that Ermen- 
garde was under punishment, and that Becky would have 
been packed out of the house before breakfast, but that a 
scullery-maid could not be dispensed with at once. The 
servants knew that she was allowed to stay because Miss 
Minchin could not easily find another creature helpless and 
humble enough to work like a bounden slave for so few shil- 
lings a week. The elder girls in the school-room knew 
that if Miss Minchin did not send Sara away it was for 
practical reasons of her own. 

" She 's groMdng so fast and learning such a lot, some- 
how," said Jessie to Lavinia, " that she will be given classes 
soon, and Miss Minchin knows she will have to work for 
nothing. It was rather nasty of you, Lavvy, to tell about 
her having fun in the garret. How did you find it out?" 

" I got it out of Lottie. She 's such a baby she did n't 
know she was telling me. There was nothing nasty at all 
in speaking to Miss Minchin. I felt it my duty "— prig- 
gishly. " She was being deceitful. And it 's ridiculous 
that she should look so grand, and be made so much of, in 
her rags and tatters ! " 


" What were they doing when Miss Minchin caught 

" Pretending some silly thing. Ermengarde had taken 
up her hamper to share with Sara and Becky. She never 
invites us to share things. Not that I care, but it 's rather 
vulgar of her to share with servant-girls in attics. I won- 
der Miss Minchin did n't turn Sara out— even if she does 
want her for a teacher." 

"If she was turned out where would she go?" inquired 
Jessie, a trifle anxiously. 

"How do I know?" snapj)ed Lavinia. "She '11 look 
rather queer when she comes into the school-room this morn- 
ing, I should think — after what 's happened. She had no 
dinner yesterday, and she 's not to have any to-day." 

Jessie was not as ill-natured as she was silly. She picked 
up her book with a little jerk. 

" Well, I think it 's horrid," she said. " They 've no right 
to starve her to death." 

When Sara went into the kitchen that morning the cook 
looked askance at her, and so did the housemaids; but she 
passed them hurriedly. She had, in fact, overslept herself 
a little, and as Becky had done the same, neither had had 
time to see the other, and each had come down-stairs in 

Sara went into the scullery. Becky was violently scrub- 
bing a kettle, and was actually gurgling a little song in 
her throat. She looked up with a wildly elated face. 

" It was there when I wakened, miss— the blanket," she 
whispered excitedly. " It was as real as it was last night." 


" So was mine," said Sara. " It is all there now— all 
of it. While I was dressing I ate some of the cold things 
we left." 

"Oh, laws! oh, laws!" Becky uttered the exclama- 
tion in a sort of rapturous groan, and ducked her head 
over her kettle just in time, as the cook came in from the 

Miss Minchin had expected to see in Sara, when she 
appeared in the school-room, very much what Lavinia had 
expected to see. Sara had always been an annoying puzzle 
to her, because severity never made her cry or look fright- 
ened. When she was scolded she stood still and listened 
politely with a grave face ; when she was punished she per- 
formed her extra tasks or went without her meals, making 
no complaint or outward sign of rebellion. The very fact 
that she never made an impudent answer seemed to Miss 
Minchin a kind of impudence in itself. But after yes- 
terday's deprivation of meals, the violent scene of last 
night, the prospect of hunger to-day, she must surely have 
broken down. It would be strange indeed if she did not 
come down-stairs with pale cheeks and red eyes and an 
unhappy, humbled face. 

Miss Minchin saw her for the first time when she en- 
tered the school-room to hear the little French class its les- 
sons and superintend its exercises. And she came in with 
a springing step, color in her cheeks, and a smile hover- 
ing about the corners of her mouth. It was the most 
astonishing thing Miss Minchin had ever known. It gave 
her quite a shock. What was the child made of? What 


could such a thing mean? She called her at once to her 

" You do not look as if you realize that you are in dis- 
grace," she said. "Are you absolutely hardened?" 

The truth is that when one is still a child— or even if one 
is grown up— and has been well fed, and has slept long and 
softly and warm ; when one has gone to sleep in the midst 
of a fairy story, and has wakened to find it real, one can- 
not be unhappy or even look as if one were ; and one could 
not, if one tried, keep a glow of joy out of one's eyes. 
Miss Minchin was almost struck dumb by the look of Sara's 
eyes when she lifted them and made her perfectly respect- 
ful answer. 

" I beg your pardon, Miss Minchin," she said; " I know 
that I am in disgrace." 

"Be good enough not to forget it and look as if you 
had come into a fortune. It is an impertinence. And re- 
member you are to have no food to-day." 

" Yes, Miss Minchin," Sara answered; but as she turned 
away her heart leaped with the memory of what yesterday 
had been. " If the Magic had not saved me just in time," 
she thought, "how horrible it would have been!" 

" She can't be very hungry," whispered Lavinia. " Just 
look at her. Perhaps she is pretending she has had a good 
breakfast"— with a spiteful laugh. 

" She 's different from other people," said Jessie, watch- 
ing Sara with her class. " Sometimes I 'm a bit frightened 
of her." 

" Ridiculous thing! " ejaculated Lavinia. 


All through the day the light was in Sara's face, and the 
color in her cheek. The servants cast puzzled glances at her, 
and whispered to each other, and Miss Amelia's small blue 
eyes wore an expression of bewilderment. What such an 
audacious look of well-being, under august displeasure, 
could mean she could not understand. It was, however, 
just like Sara's singular obstinate way. She was probably 
determined to brave the matter out. 

One thing Sara had resolved upon, as she thought things 
over. The wonders which had happened must be kept a 
secret, if such a thing were possible. If Miss Minchin 
should choose to mount to the attic again, of course all 
would be discovered. But it did not seem likely that she 
would do so for some time at least, unless she was led 
by suspicion. Ermengarde and Lottie would be watched 
with such strictness that they would not dare to steal out 
of their beds again. Ermengarde could be told the story 
and trusted to keep it secret. If Lottie made any discov- 
eries, she could be bound to secrecy also. Perhaps the 
Magic itself would help to hide its own marvels. 

" But whatever happens," Sara kept saying to herself 
all day—" whatever happens, somewhere in the world there 
is a heavenly kind person who is my friend — my friend. 
If I never know who it is — if I never can even thank him 
— I shall never feel quite so lonely. Oh, the Magic was 
good to me ! " 

If it was possible for weather to be worse than it had 
been the day before, it was worse this day — wetter, mud- 
dier, colder. There were more errands to be done, the 


cook was more irritable, and, knowing that Sara was in 
disgrace, she was more savage. But what does anything 
matter when one's Magic has just proved itself one's 
friend. Sara's supper of the night before had given her 
strength, she knew that she should sleep well and warmly, 
and, even though she had naturally begun to be hungry 
again before evening, she felt that she could bear it until 
breakfast-time on the following day, when her meals would 
surely be given to her again. It was quite late when she 
was at last allowed to go up-stairs. She had been told 
to go into the school-room and study until ten o'clock, and 
she had become interested in her work, and remained over 
her books later. 

When she reached the top flight of stairs and stood be- 
fore the attic door, it must be confessed that her heart beat 
rather fast. 

" Of course it might all have been taken away," she 
whispered, trying to be brave. " It might only have been 
lent to me for just that one awful night. But it was lent to 
me— I had it. It was real." 

She pushed the door open and went in. Once inside, she 
gasped slightly, shut the door, and stood with her back 
against it, looking from side to side. 

The Magic had been there again. It actually had, and it 
had done even more than before. The fire was blazing, in 
lovely leaping flames, more merrily than ever. A num- 
ber of new things had been brought into the attic which 
so altered the look of it that if she had not been past doubt- 
ing, she would have rubbed her eyes. Upon the low table 


another supper stood— this time with cups and plates for 
Becky as well as herself; a piece of bright, heavy, strange 
embroidery covered the battered mantel, and on it some or- 
naments had been placed. All the bare, ugly things which 
could be covered with draperies had been concealed and 
made to look quite pretty. Some odd materials of rich 
colors had been fastened against the wall with fine, sharp 
tacks— so sharp that they could be pressed into the wood 
and plaster without hammering. Some brilhant fans were 
pinned up, and there were several large cushions, big and 
substantial enough to use as seats. A wooden box was cov- 
ered with a rug, and some cushions lay on it, so that it wore 
quite the air of a sofa. 

Sara slowly moved away from the door and simply sat 
down and looked and looked again. 

" It is exactly like something fairy come true," she said. 
" There is n't the least difference. I feel as if I might wish 
for anything— diamonds or bags of gold— and they would 
appear! That would n't be any stranger than this. Is 
this my garret? Am I the same cold, ragged, damp Sara? 
And to think I used to pretend and pretend and wish there 
were fairies! The one thing I always wanted was to see 
a fairy story come true. I am living in a fairy story. I 
feel as if I might be a fairy myself, and able to turn things 
into anything else." 

She rose and knocked upon the wall for the prisoner in 
the next cell, and the prisoner came. 

When she entered she almost dropped in a heap upon 
the floor. For a few seconds she quite lost her breath. 


"Oh, laws!" she gasped, "Oh, laws, miss!" just as 
she had done in the scullery. 

" You see," said Sara. 

On this night Becky sat on a cushion upon the hearth- 
rug and had a cup and saucer of her own. 

When Sara went to bed she found that she had a new 
thick mattress and big downy pillows. Her old mattress 
and pillow had been removed to Becky's bedstead, and, con- 
sequently, with these additions Becky had been supplied 
with unheard-of comfort. 

" Where does it all come from? " Becky broke forth once. 
" Laws! who does it, miss? " 

" Don't let us even askf said Sara. " If it were not that 
I want to say, ' Oh, thank you,' I would rather not know. 
It makes it more beautiful." 

From that time life became more wonderful day by day. 
The fairy story continued. Almost every day something 
new was done. Some new comfort or ornament appeared 
each time Sara opened the door at night, until in a short 
time the attic was a beautiful little room full of all sorts 
of odd and luxurious things. The ugly walls were gradu- 
ally entirely covered with pictures and draperies, ingenious 
pieces of folding furniture appeared, a book-shelf was 
hung up and filled with books, new comforts and conve- 
niences appeared one by one, until there seemed nothing 
left to be desired. When Sara went down-stairs in the 
morning, the remains of the supper were on the table ; and 
when she returned to the attic in the evening, the magician 
had removed them and left another nice little meal. Miss 


Minchin was as harsh and insulting as ever, Miss Amelia 
as peevish, and the servants were as vulgar and rude. Sara 
was sent on errands in all weathers, and scolded and driven 
hither and thither; she was scarcely allowed to speak to 
Ermengarde and Lottie ; Lavinia sneered at the increasing 
shabbiness of her clothes; and the other girls stared curi- 
ously at her when she appeared in the school-room. But 
what did it all matter while she was living in this wonderful 
mysterious story? It was more romantic and delightful 
than anything she had ever invented to comfort her starved 
young soul and save herself from despair. Sometimes, 
when she was scolded, she could scarcely keep from smil- 

"If you only knew!" she was saying to herself. "If 
you only knew ! " 

The comfort and happiness she enjoyed were making her 
stronger, and she had them always to look forward to. If 
she came home from her errands wet and tired and hungry, 
she knew she would soon be warm and well fed after she 
had climbed the stairs. During the hardest day she could 
occupy herself blissfully by thinking of what she should 
see when she opened the attic door, and wondering what 
new delight had been prepared for her. In a very short 
time she began to look less thin. Color came into her 
cheeks, and her eyes did not seem so much too big for her 

" Sara Crewe looks wonderfully well," Miss Minchin 
remarked disapprovingly to her sister. 

" Yes," answered poor, silly Miss Amelia. " She is ab- 


solutely fattening. She was beginning to look like a little 
starved crow." 

" Starved! " exclaimed Miss Minchin, angrily. " There 
was no reason why she should look starved. She always 
had plenty to eat!" 

" Of — of course," agreed Miss Amelia, humbly, alarmed 
to find that she had, as usual, said the wrong thing. 

" There is something very disagreeable in seeing that sort 
of thing in a child of her age," said Miss Minchin, with 
haughty vagueness. 

" What— sort of thing? " Miss Ameha ventured. 

" It might almost be called defiance," answered Miss 
Minchin, feeling annoyed because she knew the thing she 
resented was nothing like defiance, and she did not know 
what other unpleasant term to use. " The spirit and will 
of any other child would have been entirely humbled and 
broken by— by the changes she has had to submit to. But, 
vipon my word, she seems as little subdued as if —as if she 
were a princess." 

"Do you remember," put in the unwise INIiss Ameha, 
" what she said to you that day in the school-room about 
what you would do if you found out that she was—" 

" No, I don't," said Miss Minchin. " Don't talk non- 
sense." But she remembered very clearly indeed. 

Very naturally, even Becky was beginning to look 
plumper and less frightened. She could not help it. She 
had her share in the secret fairy story, too. She had two 
mattresses, two pillows, plenty of bed-covering, and every 
night a hot supper and a seat on the cushions by the fire. 


The Bastille had melted away, the prisoners no longer ex- 
isted. Two comforted children sat in the midst of delights. 
Sometimes Sara read aloud from her books, sometimes she 
learned her own lessons, sometimes she sat and looked into 
the fire and tried to imagine who her friend could be, and 
wished she could say to him some of the things in her heart. 

Then it came about that another wonderful thing hap- 
pened. A man came to the door and left several parcels. 
All were addressed in large letters, " To the Little Girl in 
the right-hand attic." 

Sara herself was sent to ojoen the door and took them 
in. She laid the two largest parcels on the hall table, and 
was looking at the address, when Miss Minchin came down 
the stairs and saw her, 

" Take the things to the young lady to whom they be- 
long," she said severely. "Don't stand there staring at 

" They belong to me," answered Sara, quietly. 

" To you? " exclaimed Miss Minchin. " What do you 

" I don't know where they come from," said Sara, " but 
they are addressed to me. I sleep in the right-hand attic. 
Becky has the other one." 

Miss Minchin came to her side and looked at the parcels 
with an excited expression. 

" What is in them? " she demanded. 

" I don't know," replied Sara. 

" Open them," she ordered. 

Sara did as she was told. When the packages were un- 


folded Miss Minchin's countenance wore suddenly a sin- 
gular expression. What she saw was pretty and comfort- 
able clothing — clothing of different kinds: shoes, stockings, 
and gloves, and a warm and beautiful coat. There were 
even a nice hat and an umbrella. They were all good 
and expensive things, and on the pocket of the coat was 
pinned a paper, on which were written these words : "To 
be worn every day. — Will be re23laced by others when 

Miss Minchin was quite agitated. This was an incident 
which suggested strange things to her sordid mind. Could 
it be that she had made a mistake, after all, and that the 
neglected child had some powerful though eccentric friend 
in the background — perhaps some previously unknown re- 
lation, who had suddenly traced her whereabouts, and 
chose to provide for her in this mysterious and fantastic 
way? Relations were sometimes very odd— particularly 
rich old bachelor uncles, who did not care for having chil- 
dren near them. A man of that sort might prefer to over- 
look his young relation's welfare at a distance. Such a 
person, however, would be sure to be crotchety and hot- 
tempered enough to be easily offended. It would not be 
very pleasant if there were such a one, and he should learn 
all the truth about the thin, shabby clothes, the scant food, 
and the hard work. She felt very queer indeed, and very 
uncertain, and she gave a side glance at Sara. 

" Well," she said, in a voice such as she had ncA^er used 
since the little girl lost her father, "some one is very 
kind to you. As the things have been sent, and you are to 


have new ones when they are worn out, you may as well go 
and put them on and look respectable. After you are 
dressed you may come down-stairs and learn your lessons in 
the school-room. You need not go out on any more errands 

About half an hour afterward, when the school-room 
door opened and Sara walked in, the entire seminary was 
struck dumb with amazement. 

"My word!" ejaculated Jessie, jogging Lavinia's el- 
bow. " Look at the Princess Sara! " 

Everybody was looking, and when Lavinia looked she 
turned quite red. 

It was the Princess Sara indeed. At least, since the days 
when she had been a princess, Sara had never looked as she 
did now. She did not seem the Sara they had seen come 
down the back stairs a few hours ago. She was dressed in 
the kind of frock Lavinia had been used to envying her the 
possession of. It was deep and warm in color, and beau- 
tifully made. Her slender feet looked as they had done 
when Jessie had admired them, and the hair, whose heavy 
locks had made her look rather like a Shetland pony when 
it fell loose about her small, odd face, was tied back with a 

" Perhaps some one has left her a fortune," Jessie whis- 
pered. " I always thought something would happen to her. 
She is so queer." 

" Perhaps the diamond-mines have suddenly appeared 
again," said Lavinia, scathingly. "Don't please her by 
staring at her in that way, you silly thing." 


" Sara," broke in Miss Minchin's deep voice, " come and 
sit here." 

And while the whole school-room stared and pushed with 
elbows, and scarcely made any effort to conceal its excited 
curiosity, Sara went to her old seat of honor, and bent her 
head over her books. 

That night, when she went to her room, after she and 
Becky had eaten their supper she sat and looked at the 
fire seriously for a long time. 

"Are you making something up in your head, miss?" 
Becky inquired with respectful softness. When Sara sat 
in silence and looked into the coals with dreaming eyes it 
generally meant that she was making a new story. But this 
time she was not, and she shook her head. 

" No," she answered. " I am wondering what I ought to 

Becky stared— still respectfully. She was filled with 
something approaching reverence for everything Sara did 
and said. 

" I can't help thinking about my friend," Sara explained. 
" If he wants to keep himself a secret, it would be rude to 
try and find out who he is. But I do so want him to know 
how thankful I am to him— and how happy he has made 
me. Any one who is kind wants to know when people have 
been made happy. They care for that more tiian for being 
thanked. I wish— I do wish—" 

She stopped short because her eyes at that instant fell 
upon something standing on a table in a corner. It was 
something she had found in the room when she came up to 


it only two days before. It was a little writing-case fitted 
with paper and envelopes and pens and ink. 

"Oh," she exclaimed, "why did I not think of that be- 

She rose and went to the corner and brought the case 
back to the fire. 

"I can write to him," she said joyfully, "and leave it 
on the table. Then perhaps the person who takes the 
things away will take it, too. I won't ask him anything. 
He won't mind my thanking him, I feel sure." 

So she wrote a note. This is what she said: 

" I hope you will not think it is impolite that I should 
write this note to you when you wish to keep yourself a 
secret. Please believe I do not mean to be impolite or try 
to find out anything at all; only I want to thank you 
for being so kind to me— so heavenly kind— and making 
everything like a fairy story. I am so grateful to you, and 
I am so happy — and so is Becky. Becky feels just as 
thankful as I do — it is all just as beautiful and wonderful 
to her as it is to me. We used to be so lonely and cold and 
hungrj% and now — oh, just think what you have done for 
us! Please let me say just these words. It seems as if I 
ought to say them. Thank you— thank you— thank you! 
" The Little Girl in the Attic." 

The next morning she left this on the little table, and 
in the evening it had been taken away with the other things ; 
so she knew the Magician had received it, and she was 


happier for the thought. She was reading one of her 
new books to Becky just before they went to their 
respective beds, when her attention was attracted by a 
sound at the skyhght. When she looked up from her 
page she saw that Becky had heard the sound also, as she 
had turned her head to look and was listening rather 

" Something 's there, miss," she whispered. 

" Yes," said Sara, slowly. " It sounds— rather like a cat 
—trying to get in." 

She left her chair and went to the skylight. It was a 
queer little sound she heard — like a soft scratching. She 
suddenly remembered something and laughed. She re- 
membered a quaint little intruder who had made his way 
into the attic once before. She had seen him that very af- 
ternoon, sitting disconsolately on a table before a window 
in the Indian gentleman's house. 

" Suppose," she whispered in pleased excitement—" just 
suppose it was the monkey who had got away again. Oh, 
I wish it was!" 

She climbed on a chair, very cautiously raised the sky- 
light, and peeped out. It had been snowing all day, and on 
the snow, quite near her, crouched a tiny, shivering figure, 
whose small black face wrinkled itself piteously at sight 
of her. 

" It is the monkey," she cried out. " He has crept out 
of the Lascar's attic, and he saw the light." 

Becky ran to her side. 

"Are you going to let him in, miss?" she said. 

She sat down and held him un lier knee. 


" Yes," Sara answered joyfully. " It 's too cold for 
monkeys to be out. They 're delicate. I '11 coax him in." 

She put a hand out delicately, speaking in a coaxing 
voice— as she spoke to the sparrows and to Melchisedec— 
as if she were some friendly little animal herself and lov- 
ingly understood their timid wildness. 

" Come along, monkey darling," she said. " I won't 
hurt you." 

He knew she would not hurt him. He knew it before she 
laid her soft, caressing little paw on him and drew him 
toward her. He had felt human love in the slim brown 
hands of Ram Dass, and he felt it in hers. He let her 
lift him through the skylight, and when he found him- 
self in her arms he cuddled up to her breast and took 
friendly hold of a piece of her hair, looking up into her 

" Nice monkey ! Nice monkey ! " she crooned, kissing his 
funny head. " Oh, I do love little animal things." 

He was evidently glad to get to the fire, and when she 
sat down and held him on her knee he looked from her to 
Becky with mingled interest and appreciation. 

" He is plain-looking, miss, ain't he? " said Becky. 

" He looks like a very ugly baby," laughed Sara. " I 
beg your pardon, monkey; but I 'm glad you are not a 
baby. Your mother could n't be proud of you, and no one 
would dare to say you looked like any of your relations. 
Oh, I do like you!" 

She leaned back in her chair and reflected. 

" Perhaps he 's sorry he 's so ugly," she said, " and it 's 


always on his mind. I wonder if he has a mind. Monkey, 
my love, have you a mind? " 

But the monkey only put up a tiny paw and scratched 
his head. 

"What shall j^ou do with him?" Becky asked. 

" I shall let him sleep with me to-night, and then take 
him back to the Indian gentleman to-morrow. I am sorry 
to take you back, monkey; but you must go. You ought 
to be fondest of your own family; and I 'm not a real 

And when she went to bed she made him a nest at her 
feet, and he curled up and slept there as if he were a baby 
and much pleased with his quarters. 



THE next afternoon three members of the Large 
Family sat in the Indian gentleman's library, do- 
ing their best to cheer him up. They had been 
allowed to come in to perform this office because he had 
specially invited them. He had been living in a state of 
suspense for some time, and to-day he was waiting for 
a certain event very anxiously. This event was the return 
of Mr. Carmichael from Moscow. His stay there had been 
prolonged from week to week. On his first arrival there, 
he had not been able satisfactorily to trace the family he 
had gone in search of. When he felt at last sure that he 
had found them and had gone to their house, he had been 
told that they were absent on a journey. His efforts to 
reach them had been unavailing, so he had decided to re- 
main in Moscow until their return. Mr. Carrisford sat in 
his reclining-chair, and Janet sat on the floor beside him. 
He was very fond of Janet. Nora had found a footstool, 
and Donald was astride the tiger's head which orna- 
mented the rug made of the animal's skin. It must be 
owned that he was riding it rather violently. 

" Don't chirrup so loud, Donald," Janet said. " When 


you come to cheer an ill person up you don't cheer him 
up at the top of your voice. Perhaps cheering up is too 
loud, Mr. Carrisford?" turning to the Indian gentle- 

But he only patted her shoulder. 

" No, it is n't," he answered. " And it keeps me from 
thinking too much." 

" I 'm going to be quiet," Donald shouted. " We '11 all 
be as quiet as mice." 

" Mice don't make a noise like that," said Janet. 

Donald made a bridle of his handkerchief and bounced 
up and down on the tiger's head. 

" A whole lot of mice might," he said cheerfully. " A 
thousand mice might." 

" I don't believe fifty thousand mice would," said Janet, 
severely; " and we have to be as quiet as one mouse." 

Mr. Carrisford laughed and patted her shoulder again. 

" Papa won't be very long now," she said. " May we 
talk about the lost little girl? " 

" I don't think I could talk much about anything else 
just now," the Indian gentleman answered, knitting his 
forehead with a tired look. 

" We like her so much," said Nora. " We call her the 
little ww-fairy princess." 

"Why?" the Indian gentleman inquired, because the 
fancies of the Large Family always made him forget 
things a little. 

It was Janet who answered. 

" It is because, though she is not exactly a fairy, she will 


be so rich when she is found that she will be hke a princess 
in a fairy tale. We called her the fairy princess at first, but 
it did n't quite suit." 

" Is it true," said Nora, " that her papa gave all his 
money to a friend to put in a mine that had diamonds in 
it, and then the friend thought he had lost it all and ran 
away because he felt as if he was a robber? " 

"But he was n't really, you know," put in Janet, hastily. 

The Indian gentleman took hold of her hand quickly. 

" No, he was n't really," he said. 

" I am sorry for the friend," Janet said; " I can't help it. 
He did n't mean to do it, and it would break his heart. I 
am sure it would break his heart." 

" You are an understanding little woman, Janet," the 
Indian gentleman said, and he held her hand close. 

" Did you tell Mr. Carrisford," Donald shouted again, 
" about the little-girl-who-is-n't-a-beggar? Did you tell 
him she has new nice clothes? P'r'aps she 's been found by 
somebody when she was lost." 

" There 's a cab! " exclaimed Janet. " It 's stopping be- 
fore the door. It is papa!" 

They all ran to the windows to look out. 

" Yes, it 's papa," Donald proclaimed. " But there is no 
little girl." 

All three of them incontinently fled from the room and 
tumbled into the hall. It was in this way they always wel- 
comed their father. They were to be heard jumping up 
and down, clapping their hands, and being caught up and 


Mr. Carrisford made an effort to rise and sank back 
again into his chair. 

" It is no use," he said. " What a wreck I am! " 

Mr. Carmichael's voice approached the door. 

" No, children," he was saying; " you may come in after 
I have talked to Mr. Carrisford. Go and play with Ram 

Then the door opened and he came in. He looked 
rosier than ever, and brought an atmosphere of freshness 
and health with him; but his eyes were disappointed and 
anxious as they met the invalid's look of eager question 
even as they grasped each other's hands, 

"What news?" Mr. Carrisford asked. "The child the 
Russian people adopted? " 

" She is not the child we are looking for," was Mr. Car- 
michael's answer. " She is much younger than Captain 
Crewe's little girl. Her name is Emily Carew. I have 
seen and talked to her. The Russians were able to give 
me every detail." 

How wearied and miserable the Indian gentleman 
looked! His hand dropped from Mr. Carmichael's. 

" Then the search has to be begun over again," he said. 
" That is all. Please sit down." 

Mr. Carmichael took a seat. Somehow, he had gradually 
grown fond of this unhappy man. He was himself so well 
and happy, and so surrounded by cheerfulness and love, 
that desolation and broken health seemed pitifully unbear- 
able things. If there had been the sound of just one gay 
little high-pitched voice in the house, it would have been 


so much less forlorn. And that a man should be compelled 
to carry about in his breast the thought that he had 
seemed to wrong and desert a child was not a thing one 
could face. 

" Come, come," he said in his cheery voice; "we '11 find 
her yet." 

" We must begin at once. No time must be lost," Mr. 
Carrisford fretted. " Have you any new suggestion to 
make— any whatsoever?" 

Mr. Carmichael felt rather restless, and he rose and be- 
gan to pace the room with a thoughtful, though uncertain 

" Well, perhaps," he said. " I don't know what it may be 
worth. The fact is, an idea occurred to me as I was think- 
ing the thing over in the train on the journey from Dover." 

" What was it? If she is alive, she is somewhere." 

" Yes; she is somewhere. We have searched the schools 
in Paris. Let us give up Paris and begin in London. 
That was my idea— to search London." 

" There are schools enough in London," said Mr. Car- 
risford. Then he slightly started, roused by a recollection. 
"By the way, there is one next door." 

" Then we will begin there. We cannot begin nearer 
than next door." 

" No," said Carrisford. " There is a child there who in- 
terests me ; but she is not a pupil. And she is a little dark, 
forlorn creature, as unlike poor Crewe as a child could be." 

Perhaps the Magic was at work again at that very mo- 
ment- the beautiful Magic. It really seemed as if it might 


be so. What was it that brought Ram Dass into the room 
—even as his master spoke— salaaming respectfully, but 
with a scarcely concealed touch of excitement in his dark, 
flashing eyes ? 

" Sahib," he said, "the child herself has come— the child 
the sahib felt pity for. She brings back the monkey who 
had again run away to her attic under the roof. I have 
asked that she remain. It was my thought that it would 
please the sahib to see and speak with her." 

"Who is she?" inquired Mr. Carmichael. 

" God knows," Mr. Carrisford answered. " She is the 
child I spoke of. A little drudge at the school." He 
waved his hand to Ram Dass, and addressed him. " Yes, I 
should like to see her. Go and bring her in." Then he 
turned to Mr. Carmichael. " While you have been away," 
he explained, " I have been desperate. The days were so 
dark and long. Ram Dass told me of this child's miseries, 
and together we invented a romantic plan to help her. I 
suppose it was a childish thing to do ; but it gave me some- 
thing to plan and think of. Without the help of an agile, 
soft-footed Oriental like Ram Dass, however, it could not 
have been done." 

Then Sara came into the room. She carried the monkey 
in her arms, and he evidently did not intend to part from 
her, if it could be helped. He was clinging to her and chat- 
tering, and the interesting excitement of finding herself in 
the Indian gentleman's room had brought a flush to Sara's 

" Your monkey ran away again," she said, in her pretty 


voice. *' He came to my garret window last night, and I 
took him in because it was so cold. I would have brought 
him back if it had not been so late. I knew you were ill 
and might not like to be disturbed." 

The Indian gentleman's hollow eyes dwelt on her with 
curious interest. 

" That was very thoughtful of you," he said. 

Sara looked toward Ram Dass, who stood near the door. 

" Shall I give him to the Lascar? " she asked. 

"How do you know he is a Lascar?" said the Indian 
gentleman, smiling a little. 

" Oh, I know Lascars," Sara said, handing over the re- 
luctant monkey. " I was born in India." 

The Indian gentleman sat upright so suddenly, and with 
such a change of expression, that she was for a moment 
quite startled. 

"You were born in India," he exclaimed, "were you? 
Come here." And he held out his hand. 

Sara went to him and laid her hand in his, as he seemed 
to want to take it. She stood still, and her green-gray eyes 
met his wonderingly. Something seemed to be the matter 
with him. 

" You live next door? " he demanded. 

" Yes ; I live at Miss Minchin's seminary." 

" But you are not one of her pupils? " 

A strange little smile hovered about Sara's mouth. She 
hesitated a moment. 

" I don't think I know exactly what I am," she replied. 

"Why not?" 


"At first I was a pupil, and a parlor-boarder; but 

" You were a pupil! What are you now? " 

The queer little sad smile was on Sara's lips again. 

" I sleep in the attic, next to the scullery -maid," she said. 
" I run errands for the cook— I do anything she tells me; 
and I teach the little ones their lessons." 

" Question her, Carmichael," said Mr. Carrisford, sink- 
ing back as if he had lost his strength. " Question her; I 

The big, kind father of the Large Family knew how to 
question little girls. Sara realized how much practice he 
had had when he spoke to her in his nice, encouraging 

"What do you mean by 'At first,' my child?" he in- 

" When I was first taken there by my papa." 

" Where is your papa? " 

" He died," said Sara, very quietly. " He lost all his 
money and there was none left for me. There was no one 
to take care of me or to pay Miss Minchin." 

"Carmichael!" the Indian gentleman cried out loudly; 
" Carmichael!" 

" We must not frighten her," Mr. Carmichael said aside 
to him in a quick, low voice; and he added aloud to Sara: 
" So you were sent up into the attic, and made into a little 
drudge. That was about it, was n't it? " 

" There was no one to take care of me," said Sara. 
" There was no money ; I belong to nobody." 


" How did your father lose his money? " the Indian gen- 
tleman broke in breathlessly. 

" He did not lose it himself," Sara answered, wondering 
still more each moment. " He had a friend he was very 
fond of —he was very fond of him. It was his friend who 
took his money. He trusted his friend too much." 

The Indian gentleman's breath came more quickly. 

" The friend might have meant to do no harm," he said. 
" It might have happened through a mistake." 

Sara did not know how unrelenting her quiet young 
voice sounded as she answered. If she had known, she 
would surely have tried to soften it for the Indian gentle- 
man's sake. 

" The suffering was just as bad for my papa," she said. 
" It killed him." 

" What was your father's name? " the Indian gentleman 
said. "Tell me." 

" His name was Ralph Crewe," Sara answered, feeling 
startled. " Captain Crewe. He died in India." 

The haggard face contracted, and Ram Dass sprang to 
his master's side. 

" Carmichael," the invahd gasped, " it is the child— 
the child!" 

For a moment Sara thought he was going to die. Ram 
Dass poured out drops from a bottle, and held them to his 
lips. Sara stood near, trembling a Httle. She looked in a 
bewildered way at Mr. Carmichael. 

" What child am I? " she faltered. 

"He was your father's friend," Mr. Carmichael an- 


swered her. " Don't be frightened. We have been looking 
for you for two years." 

Sara put her hand up to her forehead, and her mouth 
trembled. She spoke as if she were in a dream. 

" And I was at Miss Minchin's all the while," she half 
whispered. " Just on the other side of the wall." 



IT was pretty, comfortable Mrs. Carmichael who ex- 
plained everything. She was sent for at once, and 
came across the square to take Sara into her warm 
arms and make clear to her all that had happened. The ex- 
citement of the totally unexpected discovery had been tem- 
porarily almost overpowering to Mr. Carrisf ord in his weak 

" Upon my word," he said faintly to Mr. Carmichael, 
when it was suggested that the little girl should go into 
another room, " I feel as if I do not want to lose sight of 

" I will take care of her," Jan^t said, " and mamma will 
come in a few minutes." And it was Janet who led her 

" We 're so glad you are found," she said. " You don't 
know how glad we are that you are found." 

Donald stood with his hands in his pockets, and gazed 
at Sara with reflecting and self -reproachful eyes. 

"If I 'd just asked what your name was when I gave 
you my sixpence," he said, " you would have told me it was 



Sara Crewe, and then you would have been found in a 

Then Mrs. Carmichael came in. She looked very much 
moved, and suddenly took Sara in her arms and kissed her. 

" You look bewildered, poor child," she said. " And it is 
not to be wondered at." 

Sara could only think of one thing. 

"Was he," she said, with a glance toward the closed 
door of the library — "was he the wicked friend? Oh, do 
tell me!" 

Mrs. Carmichael was crying as she kissed her again. 
She felt as if she ought to be kissed very often because she 
had not been kissed for so long. 

" He was not wicked, my dear," she answered. " He did 
not really lose your papa's monej^ He only thought he 
had lost it; and because he loved him so much his grief 
made him so ill that for a time he was not in his right mind. 
He almost died of brain-fever, and long before he began to 
recover j^our poor papa was dead." 

"And he did not know where to find me," murmured 
Sara. " And I was so near." Somehow, she could not for- 
get that she had been so near. 

" He believed you were in school in France," Mrs. Car- 
michael explained. " And he was continually misled by 
false clues. He has looked for you everywhere. When 
he saw you pass by, looking so sad and neglected, he did 
not dream that you were his friend's poor child; but be- 
cause you were a little girl, too, he was sorry for you, and 
wanted to make you happier. And he told Ram Dass to 


climb into your attic window and try to make you com- 

Sara gave a start of joy; her whole look changed. 

" Did Ram Dass bring the things? " she cried out; " did 
he tell Ram Dass to do it? Did he make the dream that 
came true ! " 

" Yes, my dear— yes! He is kind and good, and he was 
sorry for you, for little lost Sara Crewe's sake." 

The library door opened and Mr. Carmichael appeared, 
calling Sara to him with a gesture. 

" Mr. Carrisford is better already," he said. " He wants 
you to come to him." 

Sara did not wait. When the Indian gentleman looked 
at her as she entered, he saw that her face was all alight. 

She went and stood before his chair, with her hands 
clasjDcd together against her breast. 

" You sent the things to me," she said, in a joyful emo- 
tional little voice— "the beautiful, beautiful things? You 
sent them!" 

" Yes, poor, dear child, I did," he answered her. He 
was weak and broken with long illness and trouble, but he 
looked at her with the look she remembered in her father's 
eyes— that look of loving her and wanting to take her in 
his arms. It made her kneel down by him, just as she used 
to kneel by her father when they were the dearest friends 
and lovers in the world. 

"Then it is you who are my friend," she said; "it is 
you who are my friend ! " And she dropped her face on 
his thin hand and kissed it again and again. 


" The man will be himself again in three weeks," Mr. 
Carmichael said aside to his wife. " Look at his face al- 

In fact, he did look changed. Here was the "Httle mis- 
sus," and he had new things to think of and plan for al- 
ready. In the first place, there was Miss Minchin. She 
must be interviewed and told of the change which had 
taken place in the fortunes of her pupil. 

Sara was not to return to the seminary at all. The In- 
dian gentleman was very determined upon that point. She 
must remain where she was, and INIr. Carmichael should go 
and see Miss Minchin himself. 

" I am glad I need not go back," said Sara. " She will 
be very angry. She does not like me ; though perhaps it is 
my fault, because I do not like her." 

But, oddly enough. Miss Minchin made it unnecessary 
for Mr. Carmichael to go to her, by actually coming in 
search of her pupil herself. She had wanted Sara for 
something, and on inquirj^ had heard an astonishing thing. 
One of the housemaids had seen her steal out of the area 
with something hidden under her cloak, and had also seen 
her go up the steps of the next door and enter the house. 

"What does she mean!" cried Miss Minchin to Miss 

" I don't know, I 'm sure, sister," answered Miss Amelia. 
" Unless she has made friends with him because he has lived 
in India." 

" It would be just like her to thrust herself upon him 
and try to gain his sympathies in some such impertinent 


fashion," said Miss Minchin. " She must have been in the 
house two hours. I will not allow such presumption. I 
shall go and inquire into the matter, and apologize for her 

Sara was sitting on a footstool close to ^Ir. Carrisford's 
knee, and listening to some of the many things he felt it ne- 
cessary to try to explain to her, when Ram Dass announced 
the visitor's arrival. 

Sara rose involuntarily, and became rather pale ; but Mr. 
Carrisford saw that she stood quietly, and showed none of 
the ordinary signs of child terror. 

Miss Minchin entered the room with a sternly dignified 
manner. She was correctly and well dressed, and rigidly 

" I am sorry to disturb Mr. Carrisford," she said; "but 
I have explanations to make. I am Miss Minchin, the pro- 
prietress of the Young Ladies' Seminary next door." 

The Indian gentleman looked at her for a moment in 
silent scrutiny. He was a man who had naturally a rather 
hot temper, and he did not wish it to get too much the bet- 
ter of him. 

" So you are Miss Minchin? " he said. 

" I am, sir." 

" In that case," the Indian gentleman replied, " you have 
arrived at the right time. ^ly solicitor, INIr. Carmichael, 
was just on the point of going to see you." 

Mr. Carmichael bowed slightly, and Miss ^linchin 
looked from him to INIr. Carrisford in amazement. 

"Your solicitor!" she said. "I do not understand. I 


have come here as a matter of duty. I have just discovered 
that you have been intruded upon through the forwardness 
of one of my pupils— a charity pupil. I came to explain 
that she intruded without my knowledge." She turned 
upon Sara. " Go home at once," she commanded indig- 
nantly. " You shall be severely punished. Go home at 

The Indian gentleman drew Sara to his side and patted 
her hand. 

" She is not going." 

Miss Minchin felt rather as if she must be losing her 

" Not going! " she repeated. 

" No," said Mr. Carrisford. " She is not going home— 
if you give your house that name. Her home for the fu- 
ture will be with me." 

Miss Minchin fell back in amazed indignation. 

" With you! With you, sir ! What does this mean? " 

" Kindly explain the matter, Carmichael," said the In- 
dian gentleman; "and get it over as quickly as possible." 
And he made Sara sit down again, and held her hands in 
his— which was another trick of her papa's. 

Then Mr. Carmichael explained— in the quiet, level- 
toned, steady manner of a man who knew his subject, and 
all its legal significance, which was a thing Miss Minchin 
understood as a business woman, and did not enjoy. 

" Mr. Carrisford, madam," he said, " was an intimate 
friend of the late Captain Crewe. He was his partner in 
certain large investments. The fortune which Captain 

" I TRIED NOT TO BE " 249 

Crewe supposed he had lost has been recovered, and is now 
in Mr. Carrisford's hands." 

" The fortune! " cried Miss Minchin; and she really lost 
color as she uttered the exclamation. "Sara's fortune!" 

" It will be Sara's fortune," replied Mr. Carmichael, ra- 
ther coldly. " It is Sara's fortune now, in fact. Certain 
events have increased it enormously. The diamond-mines 
have retrieved themselves." 

"The diamond-mines!" Miss Minchin gasped out. If 
this was true, nothing so horrible, she felt, had ever hap- 
pened to her since she was born. 

" The diamond-mines," Mr. Carmichael repeated, and he 
could not help adding, with a rather sly, unlawyer-like 
smile: " There are not many princesses, Miss Minchin, who 
are richer than your little charity pupil, Sara Crewe, will 
be. Mr. Carrisford has been searching for her for nearly 
two years ; he has found her at last, and he will keep her." 

After which he asked Miss Minchin to sit down while 
he explained matters to her fully, and went into such 
detail as was necessary to make it quite clear to her that 
Sara's future was an assured one, and that what had 
seemed to be lost was to be restored to her tenfold; also, 
that she had in Mr. Carrisford a guardian as well as a 

Miss Minchin was not a clever woman, and in her ex- 
citement she was silly enough to make one desperate ef- 
fort to regain what she could not help seeing she had lost 
through her own worldly folly. 

" He found her under my care," she protested. " I have 


done everything for her. But for me she would have 
starved in the streets." 

Here the Indian gentleman lost his temper. 

" As to starving in the streets," he said, " she might have 
starved more comfortably there than in your attic." 

" Captain Crewe left her in my charge," Miss Minchin 
argued. " She must return to it until she is of age. She 
can be a parlor-boarder again. She must finish her edu- 
cation. The law will interfere in my behalf." 

" Come, come. Miss Minchin," Mr. Carmichael inter- 
posed, " the law will do nothing of the sort. If Sara her- 
self wishes to return to you, I dare say Mr. Carrisford 
might not refuse to allow it. But that rests with Sara." 

" Then," said ^liss ^linchin, " I appeal to Sara. I 
have not spoiled you, perhaps," she said awkwardly to the 
little girl; " but you know that your papa was pleased with 
your progress. And— ahem!— I have always been fond of 

Sara's green-gray eyes fixed themselves on her with the 
quiet, clear look Miss Minchin particularly disliked. 

" Have you, ^liss Minchin? " she said; " I did not know 

Miss Minchin reddened and drew herself up. 

" You ought to have known it," said she; " but children, 
unfortunately, never know what is best for them. Ame- 
lia and I always said you were the cleverest child in the 
school. Will you not do your duty to your poor papa and 
come home with me? " 

Sara took a step toward her and stood still. She was 

" I TRIED NOT TO BE " 251 

thinking of the day when she had been told that she be- 
longed to nobody, and was in danger of being turned into 
the street; she was thinking of the cold, hungry hours she 
had spent alone with Emily and Melchisedec in the attic. 
She looked JVIiss Minchin steadily in the face, 

" You know why I will not go home with you, Miss 
Minchin," she said ; " you know quite well." 

A hot flush showed itself on Miss JNIinchin's hard, angry 

" You will never see your companions again," she be- 
gan. " I will see that Ermengarde and Lottie are kept 

Mr. Carmichael stopped her with polite firmness. 

" Excuse me," he said; " she will see any one she wishes 
to see. The parents of Miss Crewe's fellow-pupils are not 
likely to refuse her invitations to visit her at her guardian's 
house. Mr. Carrisford will attend to that." 

It must be confessed that even Miss Minchin flinched. 
This was worse than the eccentric bachelor uncle who might 
have a peppery temper and be easily ofl'ended at the treat- 
ment of his niece. A woman of sordid mind could easily 
believe that most people would not refuse to allow their 
children to remain friends with a little heiress of diamond- 
mines. And if Mr. Carrisford chose to tell certain of 
her patrons how unhappy Sara Crewe had been made, 
many unpleasant things might happen. 

" You have not undertaken an easy charge," she said to 
the Indian gentleman, as she turned to leave the room; 
"you will discover that very soon. The child is neither 


truthful nor grateful. I suppose"— to Sara— "that you 
feel now that you are a princess again." 

Sara looked down and flushed a little, because she 
thought her pet fancy might not be easy for strangers — 
even nice ones— to understand at first. 

"I — tried not to be anything else," she answered in a 
low voice — "even when I was coldest and hungriest — I 
tiied not to be." 

" Now it will not be necessary to try," said Miss Min- 
chin, acidly, as Ram Dass salaamed her out of the room. 

She returned home and, going to her sitting-room, sent at 
once for Miss Amelia. She sat closeted with her all the rest 
of the afternoon, and it must be admitted that poor Miss 
Amelia passed through more than one bad quarter of an 
hour. She shed a good many tears, and mopped her eyes 
a good deal. One of her unfortunate remarks almost 
caused her sister to snap her head entirely off, but it re- 
sulted in an unusual manner. 

" I 'm not as clever as you, sister," she said, " and I am 
always afraid to say things to you for fear of making you 
angry. Perhaps if I were not so timid it would be better 
for the school and for both of us. I must say I 've often 
thought it would have been better if you had been less 
severe on Sara Crewe, and had seen that she was decently 
dressed and more comfortable. I know she was worked 
too hard for a child of her age, and I know she was only 
half fed-" 

" I TRIED NOT TO BE " 253 

" How dare you say such a thing! " exclaimed Miss Min- 

" I don't know how I dare," Miss Ameha answered, with 
a kind of reckless courage; "but now I 've begun I may 
as well finish, whatever hajipens to me. The child was a 
clever child and a good child— and she would have paid 
you for any kindness you had shown her. But you did n't 
show her any. The fact was, she was too clever for you, 
and you alwaj^s disliked her for that reason. She used to 
see through us both — " 

"Amelia!" gasped her infuriated elder, looking as if 
she would box her ears and knock her cap off, as she had 
often done to Becky. 

But Miss Amelia's disappointment had made her hys- 
terical enough not to care what occurred next. 

" She did! She did!" she cried. " She saw through us 
both. She saw that you were a hard-hearted, worldly wo- 
man, and that I was a weak fool, and that we were both 
of us vulgar and mean enough to grovel on our knees 
before her money, and behave ill to her because it was taken 
from her — though she behaved herself Hke a little prin- 
cess even when she was a beggar. She did — she did — like 
a little princess!" and her hysterics got the better of the 
poor woman, and she began to laugh and cry both at once, 
and rock herself backward and forward in such a way as 
made Miss Minchin stare aghast. 

" And now you 've lost her," she cried wildly; " and some 
other school will get her and her money; and if she were 
like any other child she 'd tell how she 's been treated, and 


all our pupils would be taken away and we should be 
ruined. And it serves us right ; but it serves you right more 
than it does me, for you are a hard woman, Maria Minchin 
—you're a hard, selfish, worldly woman!" 

And she was in danger of making so much noise with 
her hysterical chokes and gurgles that her sister was 
obliged to go to her and apply salts and sal volatile to 
quiet her, instead of pouring forth her indignation at her 

And from that time forward, it may be mentioned, 
the elder Miss Minchin actually began to stand a little 
in awe of a sister who, while she looked so foolish, was 
evidently not quite so foolish as she looked, and might, con- 
sequently, break out and speak truths people did not want 
to hear. 

That evening, when the pupils were gathered together 
before the fire in the school-room, as was their custom 
before going to bed, Ermengarde came in with a letter in 
her hand and a queer expression on her round face. It was 
queer because, while it was an expression of delighted ex- 
citement, it was combined with such amazement as seemed 
to belong to a kind of shock just received. 

" What is the matter? " cried two or three voices at once. 

"Is it anything to do with the row that has been going 
on?" said Lavinia, eagerly. " There has been such a row 
in Miss Minchin's room, JMiss Amelia has had something 
like hysterics and has had to go to bed." 

Ermengarde answered them slowly as if she were half 

" I TRIED NOT TO BE " 255 

" I have just had this letter from Sara," she said, holding 
it out to let them see what a long letter it was. 

" From Sara! " Every voice joined in that exclamation. 

" Where is she? " almost shrieked Jessie. 

"Next door," said Ermengarde, still slowly; "with the 
Indian gentleman." 

"Where? Where? Has she been sent away? Does 
Miss Minchin know? Was the row about that? Why did 
she write? Tell us! Tell us!" 

There was a perfect babel, and Lottie began to cry 

Ermengarde answered them slowly as if she were half 
plunged out into what, at the moment, seemed the most 
important and self -explaining thing. 

"There were diamond-mines," she said stoutly; "there 
were! " 

Open mouths and open eyes confronted her. 

" They were real," she hurried on. " It was all a mis- 
take about them. Something happened for a time, and 
Mr. Carrisford thought they were ruined—" 

"Who is Mr. Carrisford?" shouted Jessie. 

" The Indian gentleman. And Captain Crewe thought 
so, too— and he died; and Mr. Carrisfoi*d had brain-fever 
and ran away, and he almost died. And he did not know 
where Sara was. And it turned out that there were mil- 
lions and milUons of diamonds in the mines; and half of 
them belong to Sara; and they belonged to her when she 
was living in the attic with no one but ^lelchisedec for a 
friend, and the cook ordering her about. And INIr. Carris- 


ford found her this afternoon, and he has got her in his 
home — and she will never come back — and she will be more 
a princess than she ever was— a hundred and fifty thou- 
sand times more. And I am going to see her to-morrow af- 
ternoon. There ! " 

Even Miss Minchin herself could scarcely have con- 
trolled the uproar after this; and though she heard the 
noise, she did not try. She was not in the mood to face any- 
thing more than she was facing in her room, while Miss 
Ameha was weeping in bed. She knew that the news had 
penetrated the walls in some mysterious manner, and that 
every servant and every child would go to bed talking 
about it. 

So until almost midnight the entire seminary, realizing 
somehow that all rules were laid aside, crowded round Er- 
mengarde in the school-room and heard read and re-read the 
letter containing a story which was quite as wonderful as 
any Sara herself had ever invented, and which had the 
amazing charm of having happened to Sara herself and 
the mystic Indian gentleman in the very next liouse. 

Becky, who had heard it also, managed to creep up-stairs 
earlier than usual. She wanted to get away from people 
and go and look at the little magic room once more. She 
did not know what would happen to it. It was not likely 
that it would be left to Miss Minchin. It would be taken 
away, and the attic would be bare and empty again. Glad 
as she was for Sara's sake, she went up the last flight of 
stairs with a lump in her throat and tears blurring her 
sight. There would be no fire to-night, and no rosy lamp ; 

" I TRIED NOT TO BE " 257 

no supper, and no princess sitting in the glow reading or 
telling stories — no princess! 

She choked down a sob as she pushed the attic door open, 
and then she broke into a low cry. 

The lamp was flushing the room, the fire was blazing, the 
supper was waiting; and Ram Dass was standing smiling 
into her startled face. 

" Missee sahib remembered," he said. " She told the 
sahib all. She wished you to know the good fortune which 
has befallen her. Behold a letter on the tray. She has 
written. She did not wish that you should go to sleep un- 
happy. The sahib commands you to come to him to-mor- 
row. You are to be the attendant of missee sahib. To- 
night I take these things back over the roof." 

And having said this with a beaming face, he made a 
little salaam and slipped through the skylight with an agile 
silentness of movement which showed Becky how easily he 
had done it before. 



NEVER had such joy reigned in the nursery of the 
Large Family. Never had they dreamed of such 
delights as resulted from an intimate acquaintance 
with the little-girl-who-was-not-a-beggar. The mere fact 
of her suif erings and adventures made her a priceless pos- 
session. Everybody wanted to be told over and over again 
the things which had happened to her. When one was sit- 
ting by a warm fire in a big, glowing room, it was quite 
delightful to hear how cold it could be in an attic. It 
must be admitted that the attic was rather delighted in, and 
that its coldness and bareness quite sank into insignifi- 
cance when ^lelchisedec was remembered, and one heard 
about the sparrows and things one could see if one climbed 
on the table and stuck one's head and shoulders out of the 

Of course the thing loved best was the story of the ban- 
quet and the dream which was true. Sara told it for the 
first time the day after she had been found. Several mem- 
bers of the Large Family came to take tea with her, and 
as they sat or curled up on the hearth-rug she told the story 
in her own way, and the Indian gentleman hstened and 

" ANNE " 259 

watched her. When she had finished she looked up at him 
and put her hand on his knee. 

" That is my part," she said. " Now won't you tell your 
part of it, Uncle Tom?" He had asked her to call him 
always " Uncle Tom." " I don't know your part yet, and 
it must be beautiful." 

So he told them how, when he sat alone, ill and dull and 
irritable, Ram Dass had tried to distract him by describing 
the passers by, and there was one child who passed oftener 
than any one else; he had begun to be interested in her— 
partly perhaps because he was thinking a great deal of a 
little girl, and partly because Ram Dass had been able to 
relate the incident of his visit to the attic in chase of the 
monkey. He had described its cheerless look, and the bear- 
ing of the child, who seemed as if she was not of the class 
of those who were treated as drudges and servants. Bit 
by bit, Ram Dass had made discoveries concerning the 
wretchedness of her hfe. He had found out how easy a 
matter it was to climb across the few yards of roof to the 
skylight, and this fact had been the beginning of all that 

" Sahib," he had said one day, " I could cross the slates 
and make the child a fire when she is out on some errand. 
When she returned, wet and cold, to find it blazing, she 
would think a magician had done it." 

The idea had been so fanciful that JNIr. Carrisford's sad 
face had lighted with a smile, and Ram Dass had been so 
filled with rapture that he had enlarged upon it and ex- 
plained to his master how simple it would be to accomplish 


numbers of other things. He had shown a childlike plea- 
sure and invention, and the preparations for the carrying 
out of the plan had filled many a day with interest which 
would otherwise have dragged wearily. On the night of the 
frustrated banquet Ram Dass had kept watch, all his pack- 
ages being in readiness in the attic which was his own ; and 
the person who was to help him had waited with him, as in- 
terested as himself in the odd adventure. Ram Dass had 
been lying flat upon the slates, looking in at the skyhght, 
when the banquet had come to its disastrous conclusion; 
he had been sure of the profoundness of Sara's wearied 
sleep; and then, with a dark lantern, he had crept into the 
room, while his companion had remained outside and 
handed the things to him. When Sara had stirred ever so 
faintly, Ram Dass had closed the lantern-slide and lain 
flat upon the floor. These and many other exciting things 
the children found out by asking a thousand questions. 

"I am so glad," Sara said. "I am so glad it was you 
who were my friend! " 

There never were such friends as these two became. 
Somehow, they seemed to suit each other in a wonderful 
way. The Indian gentleman had never had a companion 
he liked quite as much as he liked Sara. In a month's time 
he was, as Mr. Carmichael had prophesied he would be, a 
new man. He was always amused and interested, and he 
began to find an actual pleasure in the possession of the 
wealth he had imagined that he loathed the burden of. 
There were so many charming things to plan for Sara. 
There was a little joke between them that he was a magi- 

Noticed that his companion ... sat gazing into the fire. 

" ANNE " 261 

cian, and it was one of his pleasures to invent things to 
surprise her. She found beautiful new flowers growing 
in her room, whimsical little gifts tucked under pillows, 
and once, as they sat together in the evening, they heard 
the scratch of a heavy paw on the door, and when Sara went 
to find out what it was, there stood a great dog— a splendid 
Russian boarhound— with a grand silver and gold collar 
bearing an inscription in raised letters. " I am Boris," it 
read; " I serve the Princess Sara." 

There was nothing the Indian gentleman loved more 
than the recollection of the little princess in rags and tat- 
ters. The afternoons in which the Large Family, or Er- 
mengarde and Lottie, gathered to rejoice together were 
very delightful. But the hours when Sara and the Indian 
gentleman sat alone and read or talked had a special charm 
of their own. During their passing many interesting 
things occurred. 

One evening, Mr. Carrisford, looking up from his book, 
noticed that his companion had not stirred for some time, 
but sat gazing into the fire. 

" What are you ' supposing,' Sara? " he asked. 

Sara looked up, with a bright color on her cheek. 

" I was supposing," she said ; " I was remembering that 
hungry day, and a child I saw." 

" But there were a great many hungry days," said the 
Indian gentleman, with rather a sad tone in his voice. 
"Which hungry day was it?" 

" I forgot you did n't know," said Sara. " It was the 
day the dream came true." 


Then she told him the story of the bun-shop, and the 
fourpence she picked up out of the sloppy mud, and the 
child who was hungrier than herself. She told it quite 
simply, and in as few words as possible; but somehow the 
Indian gentleman found it necessary to shade his eyes with 
his hand and look down at the carpet. 

" And I was supposing a kind of plan," she said, when 
she had finished. " I was thinking I should like to do some- 

"What was it?" said Mr. Carrisford, in a low tone. 
" You may do anything you like to do, princess." 

" I was wondering," rather hesitated Sara — " you know, 
you say I have so much money— I was wondering if I could 
go to see the bun-woman, and tell her that if, when hungry 
children—particularly on those dreadful days— come and 
sit on the steps, or look in at the window, she would just call 
them in and give them something to eat, she might send 
the bills to me. Could I do that?" 

" You shall do it to-morrow morning," said the Indian 

" Thank you," said Sara. " You see, I know what it is 
to be hungry, and it is very hard when one cannot even 
pretend it away." 

" Yes, yes, my dear," said the Indian gentleman. " Yes, 
yes, it must be. Try to forget it. Come and sit on this 
footstool near my knee, and only remember you are a prin- 

"Yes," said Sara, smiling; "and I can give buns and 
bread to the populace." And she went and sat on the stool, 

" ANNE " 263 

and the Indian gentleman (he used to hke her to call him 
that, too, sometimes) drew her small dark head down upon 
his knee and stroked her hair. 

The next morning. Miss Minchin, in looking out of her 
window, saw the thing she perhaps least enjoyed seeing. 
The Indian gentleman's carriage, with its tall horses, drew 
up before the door of the next house, and its owner and 
a little figure, warm with soft, rich furs, descended the 
steps to get into it. The little figure was a familiar one, 
and reminded Miss Minchin of days in the past. It was 
followed by another as familiar — the sight of which she 
found very irritating. It was Becky, who, in the character 
of delighted attendant, always accompanied her young mis- 
tress to her carriage, carrying wraps and belongings. Al- 
ready Becky had a pink, round face. 

A little later the carriage drew up before the door of 
the baker's shop, and its occupants got out, oddly enough, 
just as the bun-woman was putting a tray of smoking -hot 
buns into the window. 

When Sara entered the shop the woman turned and 
looked at her, and, leaving the buns, came and stood be- 
hind the counter. For a moment she looked at Sara very 
hard indeed, and then her good-natured face lighted up. 

" I 'm sure that I remember you, miss," she said. " And 

" Yes," said Sara; " once you gave me six buns for four- 
pence, and—" 

" And you gave five of 'em to a beggar child," the wo- 
man broke in on her. "I 've always remembered it. I 


could n't make it out at first." She turned round to the 
Indian gentleman and spoke her next words to him. " I 
beg your pardon, sir, but there 's not many young people 
that notices a hungry face in that way; and I 've thought 
of it many a time. Excuse the liberty, miss,"— to Sara,— 
" but you look rosier and— well, better than you did that— 

"I am better, thank you," said Sara. "And— I am 
much happier— and I have come to ask you to do something 
for me." 

" Me, miss! " exclaimed the bun- woman, smiling cheer- 
fully. " Why, bless you! yes, miss. What can I do? " 

And then Sara, leaning on the counter, made her little 
proposal concerning the dreadful days and the hungry 
waifs and the hot buns. 

The woman watched her, and listened with an astonished 

"Why, bless me!" she said again when she had heard 
it all; " it '11 be a pleasure to me to do it. I am a working- 
woman myself and cannot afford to do much on my own 
account, and there 's sights of trouble on every side; but, 
if you '11 excuse me, I 'm bound to say I 've given away 
many a bit of bread since that wet afternoon, just along o' 
thinking of you — an' how wet an' cold you was, an' how 
hungry you looked ; an' yet you gave away your hot buns 
as if you was a princess." 

The Indian gentleman smiled involuntarily at this, and 
Sara smiled a little, too, remembering what she had said 
to herself when she put the buns down on the ravenous 
child's ragged lap. 

" ANNE " 265 

" She looked so hungry," she said. " She was even hun- 
grier than I was." 

"She was starving," said the woman. "^Many 's the 
time she 's told me of it since — how she sat there in the 
wet, and felt as if a wolf was a-tearing at her poor young 

"Oh, have you seen her since then?" exclaimed Sara. 
" Do you know where she is? " 

" Yes, I do," answered the woman, smiling more good- 
naturedly than ever. "Why, she 's in that there back 
room, miss, an' has been for a month; an' a decent, well- 
meanin' girl she 's goin' to turn out, an' such a help to me 
in the shop an' in the kitchen as you 'd scarce believe, 
knowin' how she 's lived." 

She stepped to the door of the little back parlor and 
spoke; and the next minute a girl came out and followed 
her behind the counter. And actually it was the beggar- 
child, clean and neatly clothed, and looking as if she had 
not been hungry for a long time. She looked shy, but she 
had a nice face, now that she was no longer a savage, and 
the wild look had gone from her eyes. She knew Sara in 
an instant, and stood and looked at her as if she could never 
look enough. 

" You see," said the woman, " I told her to come when 
she was hungry, and when she 'd come I 'd give her odd 
jobs to do; an' I found she was willing, and somehow I 
got to like her; and the end of it was, I 've given her a 
place an' a home, and she helps me, an' behaves well, an' 
is as thankful as a girl can be. Her name 's Anne. She 
has no other." 


The children stood and looked at each other for a few 
minutes ; and then Sara took her hand out of her muff and 
held it out across the counter, and Anne took it, and they 
looked straight into each other's eyes. 

" I am so glad," Sara said. " And I have just thought 
of something. Perhaps Mrs. Brown will let you be the one 
to give the buns and bread to the children. Perhaps you 
would like to do it because you know what it is to be hun- 
gry, too." 

" Yes, miss," said the girl. 

And, somehow, Sara felt as if she understood her, 
though she said so little, and only stood still and looked 
and looked after her as she went out of the shop with the 
Indian gentleman, and they got into the carriage and drove